A Different Kind of Fall- Mystrade
by WingsOfDuskAndDawn
Summary: Mycroft and Greg became friends during Sherlock's absence, but after his return, they both realize they want more. Can they make it happen? You'll have to read to find out! (formerly called Thaw, but then it grew up) I OWN NOTHING.
1. Thaw

A/N: Okay, so I just want to throw this out here: I'm probably going to write a sequel to this, if there's any interest, about how Greg manages to melt Mycroft completely. Is anybody out there interested in that? This is a quick little fic, not too much substance, but I like where it's going. Let me know if you want more, and I will happily oblige!

"Hey there, Iceman. Welcome to the party." Mycroft Holmes froze at the title, not one he'd given himself though he recognized it, and he slowly turned toward the man who'd spoken the words. He recognized the voice, though the nickname was a first for this man. Not that he blamed him.

"Detective Inspector." Nodding to the man who stood beside the door, exhaling a thick curl of cigarette smoke into the air, Mycroft set the point of his umbrella against the ground and silently braced himself for the words he was sure would come. He and Gregory Lestrade had become friends of a sort during Sherlock's "dead" years, but as soon as Sherlock had come back, the man had simply quit talking to him. There had been no phone calls, no texts, nothing. The politician had assumed that the other man was simply too angry, but it wasn't just anger in his voice. There was also a lingering air of betrayal and sadness, which Mycroft didn't understand.

Neither Holmes brother was particularly good at emotion. For all the areas in which they excelled, that was one handicap they were not able to overcome with their usual flair. But Sherlock had John to help him, at least. Mycroft had no one. He'd thought that it was going to be different, when he'd begun to talk with Greg. He'd even begun to share things about himself, things that no one else knew.

And then, just like smoke through a keyhole, like the clouds of smoke that were already dissipating in the air around them, that dream had disappeared because of the return of his brother. It was a bittersweet thing for Mycroft, and he'd been hoping to put off the consequences of it for a few more weeks. Helping Sherlock adjust to his life again, and helping him navigate the difficult waters with John and reach a compromise that they could both live with, had been an exhausting addition to his already complicated schedule.

The party invitation had come from John, of course, as thanks for bringing Sherlock back alive. Mycroft hadn't intended to come, but when Anthea had seen the text on his phone, which she'd been watching due to a meeting with American diplomats, she'd insisted that he come. She'd even gone to the liberty of clearing his schedule for that night, and until lunch time the next day. He'd had no choice, then. And he hadn't confessed the real reason for his reluctance to come.

Now, that reason was standing in front of him, taking a last drag from a cigarette, his eyes locked on Mycroft's the entire time, before he dropped the butt to the sidewalk and crushed it with the heel of his shoe. The "iceman," as he'd been dubbed, had to resist the urge to flinch when it occurred to him that crushing was probably what Gregory wanted to do to him, right about then.

It hurt. Everything hurt, since Greg had disappeared from his life. But he knew better than to voice that. Instead, he closed his eyes for a moment to clear all emotion out of them, and faced the cop head on. If he wanted to hit him, as John had Sherlock, or verbally lash at him, whatever revenge he wanted to take, Mycroft would give him. Maybe then he would be able to sleep, or feel like he could breathe, over the guilt that had overwhelmed him ever since he'd realized that he truly cared for this man, more than just as someone who needed to be entertained until Sherlock returned so his brother could resume his life.

"How did you do it?" The DI demanded, and Mycroft sighed. Sherlock hadn't told him about the plan they'd worked out at the absolute last minute, relying on the help of that mousy but sweet girl Molly. He opened his mouth, but before he could, Lestrade held a hand up, shaking his head at whatever he saw in Mycroft's eyes.

"No. You misunderstand me, I think. I'm not asking how Sherlock pulled off his magic trick. I'm asking _you_, how did you do it? How the hell did you do it? How did you look at me every week, watch me _mourn_, and say nothing? I understand John; he needed to hear the truth from Sherlock. But I thought that you and I were friends, Mycroft. Or should I even call you that?"

The cop was fast losing his composure, and he pulled out his pack of cigs with shaking hands and tapped one out, trying twice before managing to finally light up on the third try, inhaling a breath of harsh smoke that wasn't good for him but felt necessary, in that moment. He'd been trying to quit, really he had, but this was just too much. He felt betrayed, though he hadn't realized he cared this much about Mycroft until the news had hit him.

Greg had actually physically been ill when he'd realized that Mycroft had known, all along, and lied by omission every time he poured his heart out about his guilt. There was no way that the man who was basically the British Government wouldn't have known what his brother was planning. The elegance of it all actually suggested he had had a hand in it. And he'd said nothing.

He wanted to hate him. He really did. But even as he spat the words at him, he realized he was hoping for an answer that would make it okay, somehow. He wanted to believe in Mycroft the way John believed in Sherlock; completely, fully, committed with body, mind… and heart. His questions might have seemed rhetorical, but they were actually a plea for words that would help him understand this. He hadn't slept in days, except for an hour or two here and there in his office, and he'd resisted the rush of nicotine for longer than normal because his stomach had already been rolling.

Once he'd gotten himself under control, Greg had come here, invited by Sherlock and John to celebrate the consulting detective's return. John had, surprisingly, not been the one to invite him. Sherlock had apparently been touched by the DI's efforts on his behalf in the years since The Fall enough to actually find the energy to personally send him the text. When he'd realized it was a party, he'd done his best to mingle, but the weight of the silence between Greg and Sherlock's older brother had soon had him making excuses about needing to step outside, and he'd been here for perhaps half an hour, methodically working his way through a pack of cigarettes and occasionally just staring at the cloudy sky, waiting for the rain to come.

"I… Gregory. I never meant…" Greg blinked when he realized Mycroft was lost for words. It wasn't the first time, certainly, but to see him quite so flustered was a surprise. There was something lost in Mycroft's eyes, and almost against his own will, Greg found himself thinking of this man once again as his friend, hopeless with emotion but always there to listen and take the weight of the world on his shoulders. Now, his eyes didn't show reserved warmth, or interest, or distant amusement, but they weren't as empty as most people would assume.

John had once told Greg that with Sherlock, emotions were in the little gives, not in the grand gestures. The Holmes brothers had learned their crafts well, but unless one actually was a sociopath, feelings always managed to find their way to the surface. Mycroft's eyes weren't bleeding emotion, exactly, but neither were they icy and calm. And his voice, when next he spoke, wasn't quite unaffected either. It was a fraction quieter than normal, and just a bit rougher.

"May I have one of those?" He gestured to the cigarettes with a tilt of his head, and Greg realized that it was because his hands were clenched into fists, one at his side, one curled around his umbrella handle. His knuckles were paler than normal, though not quite white, not yet. Shrugging in a way he hoped seemed nonchalant, Greg tapped one of the last cigs into his hand and put it between his fingers, lighting the tip before stepping into Mycroft's comfort zone, making the other man's mercurial eyes widen a fraction.

"Open up." Greg murmured low, gratified when Mycroft opened his mouth, lips trembling ever so slightly before closing around the cigarette. The cherry glowed red when he exhaled, and the politician's hand came up to hold the thing like a professional. The DI remembered being surprised the first time he'd seen the younger man smoking, standing outside his flat at midnight waiting for him to get home so he could make sure he actually did get in okay. Greg had been touched that night, and amused, and not drunk enough to miss the way Mycroft blushed ever so slightly when he took the cigarette from him and took a puff before passing it back.

That night stuck out in his memory for a number of reasons, not the least of which was the fact that after that, he and Mycroft had passed the cig back and forth between them until it was gone. They'd also really talked that night, for the first time, though Mycroft had fallen silent every time Greg mentioned his brother. Now, he thought he knew why.

His own fag gone, he realized that Mycroft's was only halfway finished. Reaching out, as had become habit over the past couple of years, Greg snagged it from between his lips and took a drag for himself, the gesture meant to remind the other man of their past. Judging by the way he sucked in a breath, the reminder had worked.

"So are you gonna answer my questions, or are we just going to stand here smoking all night?" At this, Mycroft blinked, and Lestrade could practically see the gears turning in his mind as he replayed their conversation, and Greg's harsh questions, and tried to find an answer. The fact that he was really trying, not just giving him a look that said he should know better, gave the cop hope he hadn't dared let himself have since John had texted to tell him Sherlock was home.

"It's… difficult to explain, I suppose." The words might have sounded cold, but Greg could see Mycroft trying to put it together in a way that would make sense to him. The hope started to burn a little brighter, though he knew it was too soon to let himself get carried away by it. He knew better.

"When we realized that Sherlock needed to take the fall, and make it look real, we took extra precautions that those he most cares for would not know the truth. In fact, anyone that we couldn't trust to act their part perfectly had to be left out. This was especially true of John, Mrs. Hudson… and you." Pausing here, Mycroft snagged the cigarette back, almost fumbling it when his finger brushed against Greg's lips. Taking a breath and a drag to calm himself, he continued.

"There were assassins, instructed by that damned Irishman to take the three of you out if there was even a chance that Sherlock was alive. So to the world, and to you three most of all, that had to be the truth. No matter what pain you went through, we told ourselves that it would be worth it in the end to save your lives. While you could live without him, you see, he was not sure that he could live in a world without you. John most of all, obviously, but he… needs you."

"So was that why you hung around and kept an eye on the three of us? I know you paid the rent for 221B even after John told you to go to hell, I know you checked on Mrs. Hudson every week, and you… Well, you spent time with me. Was that all part of the act?"

Mycroft closed his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose as he took a last inhale of smoke. Handing the cig over wordlessly, he struggled to find the right words. Eventually, he decided on the one thing he wasn't sure he'd ever offered anyone: the complete truth, with no obfuscation. He met the DI's gaze almost against his will, and ripped away his shields, letting his feelings show. All the pain, sorrow, regret, guilt, and hope he was feeling swirled in his eyes while his body trembled ever so slightly. He saw Greg taking it all in with a shocked expression, and found his lips curling up in a sad half smile.

"I have always detested sentiment. It was I who told Sherlock, time and again, that love is a chemical defect found on the losing side. Not only because I had always seen that to be true, but also because I wanted to protect my brother. He is fragile in a way that few people understand and nobody but me even made a real effort to get through his awkwardness to the man he is inside until John Watson. I feared that the doctor would be the death of him, but it was only after The Fall that I realized the truth: Caring about John gave Sherlock the strength to travel the world and disassemble a madman's empire, but more than that, it gave him the strength to return. Love saved my brother."

Looking away because this next part was going to be impossible to say if Greg kept looking at him with compassion in his eyes, after everything he'd done to the poor man, Mycroft trained his gaze on the wreckage of spent cigarettes scattered around the cop's feet as he forced the words out.

"I let myself hope, perhaps even believe, that it might be able to do the same for me. I might have started out meeting with you in order to keep you in good condition for Sherlock's return, but as the weeks passed, I found myself wanting to do so because it made me happy. And then I realized that there was little I wouldn't say, do, or reveal in order to hear you laugh, or share another cigarette or all night phone call with you.

"I am a stranger on these roads others so often walk, Gregory, but I am not as naïve as my brother. I am well aware that what I feel for you is not obligation or duty, or anything of the kind. Perhaps I started out as a placeholder for my brother, but now, I find myself hoping that you can forgive me for having kept this from you, because it was necessary to save your life and I was too selfish to risk losing you to a bullet when for the first time in my life, I understand what it is to be alive."

Eyes blazing with emotion, the politician gripped the handle of his umbrella tighter still when he realized what the burn behind his eyes was. He hadn't experienced it in years, but he knew, all the same, that he was about to embarrass himself in front of this incredible man by crying.

And then somehow, the world shifted, and Greg's arms were wrapped around him tight, holding him close while he tossed the cig into the gutter so he could rub his hands soothingly up and down Mycroft's back. The politician froze for a moment, but then relaxed completely, letting the cop hold him. Gregory was a better man than he would ever be. This wasn't a ploy, or a tool for manipulation to be used when convenient. If he was in Greg's arms, it was because the man genuinely wanted him there.

Blindsided by the realization, he nonetheless found himself clinging to the older man, burying his face against his shoulder and inhaling the scent of stale cigarettes, paper, and gunpowder that was uniquely Gregory. His hands fisted in the back of the man's jacket and he held on, breathing in and out, until he was calm again.

When he was composed again, Mycroft reluctantly loosened his hold on the cop, who let him step back and watched with quiet eyes as he smoothed his hands down his suit, trying to straighten out the small wrinkles that had formed from their close contact.

"What happens now?" Mycroft asked, looking unsure. Greg smiled softly, because he finally understood why he'd continued to hold onto hope when anyone else would have simply raged at this man and walked away. He could only hope that Mycroft felt the same; the choice would, ultimately, be up to him now.

"Now, whatever you want happens. We can go up to the party, or you could let me take you out to dinner." The words were casual, but there was something behind them that the politician caught instantly.

"Excuse me?" His mouth was suddenly dry, and he licked his lips to try and moisten them. When Greg followed the small move with his eyes, Mycroft realized that the undertone he'd heard was exactly what he'd thought.

"You heard me, Mycroft." Greg's voice was patient but with an undercurrent of almost predatory amusement, as if he found something about humoring the politician with a repeat was humorous. "We can go to the party, or you can let me take you out."

"As a date?" The younger man asked to clarify, barely resisting the urge to hold his breath as he waited for the answer. He was _not_, he reminded himself, a teenager.

"Yes. The choice is yours, Mycroft." The DI said, smiling a little before reaching up and cupping the side of his face. A rough textured thumb swept back and forth absently over a cheekbone, not quite as well defined as his little brother's but every bit as elegant, and he felt the younger man leaning ever so slightly into his touch.

"I am going to kiss you now. This is not a question, or even a request. I've wondered how you taste for the longest time." Stepping in close, Greg angled Mycroft's face with gentle pressure, and the other man watched him with wide eyes and he leaned in and brushed their lips together, resisting the urge to push for more when he knew, somehow, that this enigmatic man had never done this before. He moved his lips slowly, letting Mycroft get used to him, and pulled back before he started to feel his control slipping. He nearly moved back when the other man let out a small sound of shocked pleasure, but he found the strength to resist.

If he was going to be Mycroft's first, he was going to show the man that he was treasured. Where with anyone else he might simply have taken, he had requested with more gentleness than he had ever shown any other prospective lover, even his ex-wife. The tenderness he felt for Mycroft was fathomless, it seemed, and gave him the strength to show care where before he would simply have plundered.

Reading all of this in his eyes and in the caress of the hand that still hadn't left the side of his face, Mycroft worked up all his courage before reaching up to mirror Greg, moving forward to repeat the kiss.

When the parted the second time, they searched one another's eyes for what seemed like ages before Mycroft finally broke the silence.

"We will enjoy our night far more if we take this somewhere else, I think. As I never went in, I won't need to say goodbyes, and you've been gone long enough that I doubt they might even think you're coming back. We can take my car. And Gregory? I am pretty sure that I owe you dinner. Though it is still a date."

Greg found himself grinning hugely, a laugh burbling out of him as jubilance lifted his soul. On impulse, he reached out and took the hand not curled around the umbrella in his as they walked toward the car. Instead of pulling away or stopping, as Greg was half afraid he would do, Mycroft squeezed his hand gently and retained possession of it. In that moment, they both knew they would be all right. And as Greg's fears disappeared, something in Mycroft began to thaw in earnest, the warmth from the hand in his traveling straight to his heart.


	2. Melt

**A/N: Hello everyone! Since there was support for the idea of a continuation, I decided to go for it! Here's part two, Melt, with many thanks for those of you who will read this and those who encouraged its creation. Enjoy!**

* * *

The back of the car was comfortable, perhaps overly plush, but Greg had grown used to such casual displays of wealth over the years. Mycroft didn't just have the government at his command, he also seemed to have a fortune of his own. Greg had asked him about it once, but he'd smiled and changed the subject. He was hoping that he would be lucky enough, eventually to be privy to secrets such as that.

For tonight, however, the cop was hoping for something else. They hadn't yet discussed intimacy, but Mycroft had invited him back to his flat for drinks after a date that had surprised them both by being incredibly fun.

It wasn't like spending the time together as friends, Greg recalled with a smile, thinking about all the times he'd wondered, but hadn't asked, if there was even a chance that they might be more than friends. He was glad now that he'd waited. If he'd fallen in love before, he might not have let Mycroft try to fix things. He knew that when his heart was broken, he was irrational. The potential loss of their friendship, electrically charged as it was, had been quite enough to work around.

"What are you thinking about, Gregory?" Mycroft's voice was soft, and the DI turned to see him watching him, not even pretending otherwise. He had a range of expressions on his face, but at the moment, curiosity was at the forefront. Grinning, Greg shrugged, picking Mycroft's hand up off the seat and absently running his lips over the knuckles, earning a sharply indrawn breath. He enjoyed this, knowing he was the first person who'd flirted with the politician like this, knowing that if he was careful, they might just make this work on a permanent basis.

"You." He answered honestly, earning a pleased but still curious look. Twining their fingers together, he let them rest on the seat between them, considering how to answer.

"I was just thinking about how far we've come. I actually did think that you were the Iceman everyone else sees at one point, you know. But then you started to open up to me, and I realized I quite enjoyed watching you melt for me. I don't think I ever even thought this might happen, though."

"You mean connecting on a level that isn't purely Sherlock related?" Mycroft inquired, and Greg saw he was really waiting for an answer that would reaffirm his belief that he was doing the right thing. The younger man really hadn't ever danced this dance before. That meant it was up to him to lead, Greg decided, and he knew exactly how to do that.

"No. I mean connecting on a lot of levels. I've always thought of you as physically attractive, in those fancy suits with that posh umbrella of yours. But you always looked… distant, somehow, before tonight. I can't quite explain it, except to say that I saw bits and pieces of the man behind the elegant façade over the past couple of years, but it's only been tonight that I've really seen you. And I really, really like what I see."

"And what is it you see?" It was difficult to breathe now, with Greg's brown eyes practically looking right into his soul, and Mycroft was aware that his voice sounded a bit breathier than it should have as the other man moved closer, until they were hip to hip, and the other's mouth was just inches from his.

"I see hope, Mycroft." Greg's voice was so quiet it was almost a whisper, and then he let himself move forward, closing the gap between them for another soft, sweet kiss. The hand not tangled with Mycroft's wrapped around the edge of the seat, holding tight as he reminded himself to go very, very slowly. There was a gasp when his tongue darted out to flick over the politician's lower lip, and then Mycroft's tongue was also exploring, albeit extremely cautiously, and Greg kissed him slowly, teaching him even as they melted into the moment together.

A very discreet clearing of the driver's throat told Greg that they'd stopped, which he wouldn't have known as his head was spinning a little from the snog. He pulled away, careful to make it clear that he wanted to linger, as Mycroft's eyes fluttered open in a curiously feminine manner.

"We're here. Shall we go get that drink?"

Mycroft took a moment before nodding and sliding out of the car through the opened door, thanking his driver and telling the man he could have the rest of the day off. He smiled at that, thanking his boss before getting back in and driving away. The two men entered the glass fronted building they'd been dropped off at, and the younger confidently headed for the elevator bank. A little at awe due to his surroundings, Greg followed more slowly, and the elevator was arriving by the time he reached his destination.

Neither man talked as they headed up, up, up, until Greg wondered if the elevator was broken. But then it dinged, and the doors slid smoothly open to reveal one of the nicest flats he'd ever seen in his life… and it was the penthouse, as a mechanical voice so kindly told him.

"You would have the nicest flat in the nicest building in London." Greg teased, heart skipping a beat when Mycroft blushed, looking a little embarrassed instead of cocky or proud. This was definitely a side of himself he would never show anyone else.

"This was the last thing I expected when I saw you there tonight." Mycroft said softly, pouring them both drinks. With his back to Greg, he felt a little surer of what he was doing, and it was enough of a difference that he found the courage to speak. One confession, he decided, deserved another.

"What were you expecting?" Tone tinged with mild amusement, Greg accepted his drink—fixed perfectly to his liking, not that that shocked him in any way—and settled on a slick leather couch, watching Mycroft turn toward the window and look out over the city while sipping delicately at his.

"I don't know, precisely." His voice was soft, though he cut a powerful figure silhouetted as he was against the skyline, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, suit jacket discarded, not a hair out of place and glass held almost absently in one hand while the other was tucked into a pocket. When he turned, he briefly let Greg's gaze before moving to sit down, looking at his drink as he elaborated.

"I did expect you to be upset. I might have overestimated how angry you would be, however. You're a very passionate man, and I had thought that there would probably be screaming, possibly even violence. And I wouldn't have blamed you for hating me. I hated myself, lying to you."

"Technically, you never did actually lie. You never said 'Sherlock is dead' or anything like that. You just didn't correct any of us when we said it."

"That's still a lie by omission, and you suffered needlessly. Yes, it was to save your life, but that does not absolve me of guilt." Mycroft was adamant, and Greg sighed, setting his drink on a coaster before turning to look at the younger man, putting a hand on his shoulder when he purposefully avoided his gaze. Sighing, he finally turned to look at the cop, who had a small, affectionate smile on his face.

"You didn't really know me at all, but you were willing to take a huge burden upon yourself to keep me safe. You did everything you could to make sure those of us Sherlock left behind would be happy, and you didn't do it because you wanted favors from your brother, or gratitude, or anything like that. I know you well enough by now, Mycroft, to know that you did what you did because you hate the thought of anyone hurting if you think you can do something about it. You've taken care of Sherlock for a long time, and I am honored that you took it upon yourself to do the same thing for me. Even though I was angry, it's not like you deliberately kept something from me for the hell of it. I had a feeling you had a reason."

"You've such faith in me, Gregory. I regret, very much, that it is unwarranted. It is my job to lie and manipulate people, and I am even better at it than Sherlock. You've seen for years how he plays with individuals, but whether or not you are aware, I do that with entire countries, thousands, even millions, of people, and on a daily basis at that. And they don't even know it. I work from the shadows, and I am very good at it. If I wanted to lie to you, I could."

"Maybe so. I am a cop, but even I know when someone's out of my league as far as this sort of thing is concerned. But Mycroft, I don't think you _would_ lie to me unless it was necessary. And you're still not like your little brother. He plays with people to get a rise out of them; you do it to save their lives, and protect them from the things that would make lesser men go insane. I don't even need to know what exactly it is that you do to understand that.

"You think of yourself as a monster, and you seem to think I think of you like a god or saint or something, and maybe that was true, back at the beginning. Now, though, I get it. You're human, a man just like me, who just happens to have an extraordinary mind and a huge heart, even if you let very few people into it."

Mycroft was silent for a long moment, staring into Greg's eyes, and then he found himself leaning forward to steal a kiss. This time it lingered, and even though both men realized that they were alone now, away from the world, and could take this however far they wanted it to go, the pace remained unhurried. They both understood, without it needing to be said, that they had all the time they needed.

It felt so much like falling, except that the sensation wasn't pleasant. This thought swirled in Mycroft's mind through a thick haze of pleasure, and he felt himself move closer, and closer still, until he was straddling Greg, not having broken the kiss once. He moaned softly when their lower halves brushed, fingers tangling of their own accord into the older man's silver hair, holding gently while he explored in a leisurely fashion the idea that he could have this, for real.

Greg wondered if he was dying. It certainly felt like he was in heaven. The thought almost made him laugh, but that would mean ending the best snog of his life, and he just wasn't willing to do that. Instead, he let his mirth out in another way, letting his hands come up to hold Mycroft's hips, wishing his shirt was untucked so he could run his fingers over bare skin, just to make the other man come undone.

Almost as if the cop had whispered the words running through his mind, which were something along the lines of _please, God, let me touch you_, Mycroft moved his hands from Greg's hair, earning a small groan of protest before the older man realized those long fingers had fluttered to the buttons of his shirt, and he'd begun to undo them. He was trembling a little, which made the job harder.

Finally breaking the kiss with a curse, Mycroft tried to focus all his energy on remaining calm enough to slide the buttons from their holes without ripping his shirt. Seeing his irritation, Greg moved his own hands up, taking the younger man's gently and kissing them each in turn before dropping them to his sides, finishing the buttons off himself with steady hands. It wasn't that he was less excited, only that he was used to dealing with it, while his soon-to-be-lover was not.

"I've got you. Don't worry, Mycroft. You can let go. I'll catch you." The seductive whisper made Mycroft whimper, which caught them both by surprise. Instead of saying anything about it, though, Greg captured his mouth again, letting the politician feel his desire, taste it beneath the layers of protectiveness, so that he would know, without a doubt, that the cop was equally affected.

When his teeth gently nipped at Mycroft's lower lip, the younger man jerked before responding in kind, and Greg growled, arousal starting to break through his control. He told himself to gentle the kiss, but before he could do so those hands were back in his hair, unconsciously tugging at it. If there was anything guaranteed to make him lose control, it was that.

Barely resisting the urge to slam Mycroft down against the couch and rut against him until they were both screaming in pleasure, Greg pulled back, taking several sharp breaths.

"I'm sorry. What did I do?" When Mycroft went to move, Greg's hands immediately seized on his hips again, holding him in place. The politician's eyes were amazing, pupils blown wide with pleasure, and his breathing was unsteady. He looked completely debauched already, and they'd only just begun. Chuckling a little, Greg shook his head, realizing the sound seemed just a little desperate.

"You're just very good at this. And I want you, very badly."

"I am giving consent, you know. I had thought that was obvious." Looking confused, Mycroft stared at Greg as if he'd grown two heads, and the cop realized he was going to have to explain or the government man would spend the entire night wondering. Deciding that show and tell was probably the best option, he let his body give into an inclination he'd been fighting since Mycroft had innocently climbed into his lap and let his hips buck up. Mycroft let out a small cry, hands moving to grip Greg's shoulders tightly.

"That," Greg said a little tensely, "is why I'm trying to go about this slowly. The way you react, My, I can tell that you've never done this before. I want your first time to be special. I want to make this sweet for you; you deserve it. I want to take care of you."

"You are an amazing man, Gregory." Mycroft murmured, eyes sparkling a little at the idea that Greg, who should have been angry with him even now, wanted to be gentle with him. For the first time in his life, he actually mattered to someone. And that was a strange but wonderful thing.

"I'm not made of glass, love. I am happy that you care so much, but I want this to be about both of us. Slow and gentle or fast and wild, I… want you. Very badly." Mycroft echoed the other man's words on purpose, watching his eyes go molten, while an almost predatory smile formed on his face. His eyes, however, still held tenderness.

"This is about both of us, even now, My. But I want to give you what you want." Greg held his breath, waiting for an answer. He got it, in the form of a passionate, slightly sloppy snog that stole both their breath with its intensity.

Taking that as his answer, Greg let himself go a little, plundering Mycroft's mouth while his hands slid up, beginning to explore the skin bared by the shirt that now gaped open, despite still being tucked in at the bottom. When the territory he'd claimed wasn't enough, Greg ran his fingernails lightly down, grazing over Mycroft's nipples, making the younger man gasp, shudder, and tightly grasp his shoulders to brace himself. The cop tugged the shirt up before pushing it off pale shoulders, baring Mycroft's upper half to his gaze.

Mycroft shivered under the intensity of Greg's stare, and he found himself wishing the other man would remove his shirt as well. Then it occurred to him that he could actually _ask_ for that. Or, better yet…

Quick fingers went to work, earning an almost wolfish look of approval as he hastily slid button after button out, cursing a little when he accidentally ripped one. Greg didn't look upset, however. If anything, he looked more aroused by Mycroft's loss of grace. Intrigued by that, the younger man finished, intent on having equal skin privileges. Once Greg's shirt was off, he let himself reach out and touch, before deciding to let himself play.

Leaning down, Mycroft wrapped his lips around one dark nipple, sucking gently. Greg bucked up beneath him, making him graze his teeth lightly over the wet little nub. This got him another sharp movement, before Greg spoke, his voice low.

"We should take this to the bedroom." Ecstatic that he was somehow not a complete failure at this, Mycroft jumped up instantly, practically towing Greg to the bedroom by their joined hands. Greg was amused, even more so when Mycroft opened his nightstand drawer and produced a bottle of lube, handing it to his partner, eyes alight with hope.

"You want me to take you?" Greg asked slowly. Mycroft nodded, hands moving to the fly of his slacks. His hands were instantly batted away, but when he opened his mouth to protest, Greg shook his head, smiling a little.

"I want to undress you." He murmured, and Mycroft blushed.

"Why does it matter who undresses who, as long as we… you know." He couldn't help turning even redder, and Greg laughed quietly.

"First, you can say it. Fuck, have sex, make love, whatever term you want to use, although the last one is probably the most accurate for what's happening right now. Second, it matters because I enjoy the fact that I have the right to touch you like this, to take your clothes off you and take you apart piece by piece until you're beneath me on that mattress, begging me to move harder, faster, and not stop until you scream for me. There's pleasure in knowing that this is only the beginning of this, and yet we're both here now, and that you're pretty much letting me have control, except wanting me to go faster. You don't even know how sexy you are, My."

The images Greg painted were so sensual that Mycroft felt himself harden impossibly more, and he had to remind himself to breathe. If there had been any doubt in his mind before, it was now completely gone.

"I'm not sexy." He responded, knowing Greg would take his words as a challenge. Predictably, the older man prowled closer, hands quickly undoing Mycroft's trousers. The younger man missed the soft thud when they hit the ground completely, due to the hand that wrapped around him, through his pants, and squeezed gently. He let out a choked noise, hips bucking instinctively to get more friction for his aching cock.

"I beg to differ. You look incredible, Mycroft, all hard and desperate for me. You have no idea how much you turn me on right now. But I think maybe I should show you, so you understand just what you do to me." Greg let go of him to do away with his own trousers, and Mycroft's eyes widened at the obvious bulge beneath his pants.

"I…" His mouth went dry, and there were no more words as Greg pressed up against him, kissing him hard, letting their bodies press against each other, cocks brushing in a way that had Mycroft practically seeing stars.

"Get on the bed for me, My?" The cop set to nibbling at that pale, aristocratic neck while he slowly slid his pants away, and Mycroft had to swallow twice before he found the strength to pull away and lie down on the bed, legs spread in an unmistakable invitation. He should have felt vulnerable, he knew, but instead, he felt powerful. He'd made Greg want him, somehow, and that was the greatest victory in his entire life. Nothing else even came close to meaning as much.

Greg looked at Mycroft hungrily as he discarded his own boxers before taking his own place on the bed, between the younger man's legs. His skin was pale but his body was toned and firm, making the cop wonder if his cushy desk job was more of a front than anything else. He'd never been self-conscious about his own body—he was in great shape, both because of all the physical aspects of being a cop and because he missed a lot of meals thanks to the job—but he wondered if Mycroft even knew how stunning his was.

"So beautiful…" he murmured, because that was exactly what he was. Mycroft's cheeks turned pink, and Greg leaned forward to kiss his lips while he opened the lube and squeezed some onto his fingers to warm it.

"I'm clean, so it's up to you if we use condoms or not." Greg said softly, nudging at the other man's entrance with the tip of one finger. Mycroft's mouth opened for a moment, but then he bit his lip as that finger slowly slid inside. He struggled to find the ability to speak as that finger began to slowly move inside him.

"I don't have condoms, and I… want you. Just you, inside me." His eyes closed as he spoke because it was almost too embarrassing to say those words out loud, let alone look at Greg while he did so.

"I have some in my wallet, but I don't want anything between us, either. I want to feel you around me, My. I want to feel you clamping around me, with nothing to dilute the pleasure." Mycroft shivered a little, unconsciously shifting on the finger that was still moving maddeningly slowly in and out. When a second finger joined it, he gasped a little. It was slightly uncomfortable, but not painful, and when Greg brushed against his prostate it ceased to be anything but incredible.

"Faster, please." He was almost unaware of voicing the request, but Greg leaned down and kissed his neck, nipping and sucking at it lightly, careful to choose a spot that would be hidden by his shirts, in response. He scissored his fingers, brushing that highly sensitive bundle of nerves on every other stroke, until he felt confident enough to add a third finger. He picked up the pace, every bit as eager as his companion, who was now making a series of soft, needy noises that were driving him half crazy.

"Gregory… please…" Mycroft's head was tossing back and forth on the pillow, and he was beyond caring if he was being embarrassingly obvious about his lack of experience. He just wanted it now, before the pleasure consumed him completely.

Feeling the exact same way, Greg removed his fingers, grabbed Mycroft's hips, and slid himself inside all in a matter of seconds. It nearly killed him to stop when Mycroft cried out, pleasure and pain mingling for a moment. Then the pain receded, and he nodded for Greg to continue.

"Don't stop, don't stop, oh, please, never, never stop…" Mycroft didn't even realize that pleas were tumbling from his mouth, but if he'd known, he wouldn't have cared. This was bliss, with Greg thrusting deep and speeding up, faster, faster, faster, while white hot pleasure built until, when the older man wrapped a hand around his cock, pleasure exploded in Mycroft's body. He screamed his orgasm, head thrown back as he came all over their chests. Lost in the moment, Greg began to drive hard and fast into him, chasing his own orgasm.

After a few more thrusts, Greg was over the edge with him, spurting inside him. It should have felt gross- Mycroft knew that—but somehow, it just didn't. Perhaps, he thought, he was just too blissed out to care.

"So that's sex." He murmured, absently running a hand through his lover's hair when Greg collapsed beside him after pulling out carefully. The other man snorted, eyes closed with an utterly content smile on his lips.

"No, I'm pretty sure that was making love. There's a difference, you know. Sex can be anonymous, same goes for fucking. What we just did was make love, I think. That only happens when two people really care about each other, and the sex is closer to a religious experience than just a mating instinct."

There was silence for a while, during which time Mycroft found the energy to get up and get a towel to clean them both off with. Greg took it from him and tended to him gently, before tossing it on the floor to deal with in the morning. Mycroft didn't even care. He got back into bed, under the covers because that was where Greg was, and lay his head on the other man's shoulder, hand over his heart. Greg laughed softly, and Mycroft tilted his head up to look at him, a little confused.

"I think I just melted the Iceman." He mused, wrapping an arm around the younger man's shoulders and stroking his thumb back and forth over that pale, freckled skin. Mycroft stared at him for a moment before smiling, cuddling back in and pressing a kiss to Greg's jaw.

"I'm happy to melt for you." The two fell asleep, wrapped around one another, and for the first time in a long time, they both relaxed completely, sleeping dreamlessly, totally at peace.


	3. Wake

**A/N: Okay, I just want to say thanks to those of you who are reading this. It means a lot to me, and thank you for your lovely reviews. I think I'll just keep writing until the story's over, and that might be a while. I had a little real life inspiration for this chapter, and I'm sorry if sad isn't your thing, but our boys have a few things they'll need to work through before we reach our happy ending, so just bear with me. Also, if you have any suggestions or ideas, feel free to send them to me- I love feedback, and I'd like to make this story something you enjoy. Now, onto what you're actually hear to read!**

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Mycroft woke to the sound of his phone ringing. With a groan, he rolled over, sorely tempted to turn the thing off and retreat back into slumber. He was certainly comfortable enough, curled up as he was around his new lover. There was something perfect about the moment, and he just knew that the moment his work intruded, the little bubble of happiness that lingered inside him was going to pop.

"Sir, I know that I rescheduled all your appointments for this morning, but there's been a problem."

The politician frowned at his phone, even as he sat up and put a hand to his face, rubbing at his tired eyes. The night before had been interesting, and Greg had woken him up more than once, but now he was… well, no. He still didn't regret it, he realized, even though his assumption that Anthea could keep the world spinning on her own for a few short hours. That was not his luck, and it was unlike him to bank on the idea like that. He would not make that mistake twice.

"What is it, then?" Slowly he rose, taking one last look at his lover before heading to the bathroom. While he walked, his PA spoke words that left him chilled.

"The assistant you had before me, that man with the sinus problems? He's dead. Apparently someone poisoned him." Mycroft froze. That man, unlike many past assistants, hadn't left his employ unwillingly. He'd been promoted, and had become a field agent, in charge of a small but prestigious group. Mycroft had been not only his boss, but his mentor.

"Has the family been alerted?" He asked quietly as he tried to recover from the blow.

"Yes. The wake and funeral have been arranged for today. I went ahead and cancelled all of today's engagements as well. Shall I send a car to collect you?" Always efficient, Anthea tacked on an afterthought. "Apparently his birth name was Peter Cooper." That was a fact Mycroft had known, of course, but only because he'd cared to look deeper. Mycroft's PA's were almost always a string of highly trained, nameless people whose skills included protection as well as organization. They were assistants, bodyguards, and experts at reading people. He was a very important person, and that meant that he required more than someone who could competently file papers.

Anthea had been in his employ for half a decade now, but before that, Peter had been the one who'd lasted the longest, with three years before the transfer Mycroft had gifted him as a reward for his service. He would have graduated Anthea as well, but for the fact that she was happy to be where she was. Peter had been slightly more ambitious.

Evidently, his ambition had gotten him killed, but it was still a sad occasion.

"Yes, please send a car along… and if you could, have the driver divert to Gregory Lestrade's residence and pick up clothing for him, something suitable for either a funeral or for work."

"Yes, sir. The driver has been dispatched. He will arrive in approximately one hour, leaving you with one more to prepare and arrive. The selected church is forty minutes from your flat." There was no hesitation as she spoke, and Mycroft hadn't expected any. She wouldn't have gotten as far as she had without being smart enough to see where things had been going between him and Gregory, and she was also too bright to ask stupid questions. If she was curious as to their current relationship, she was discreet enough to keep her interest to herself.

"Thank you, Anthea." Mycroft closed his phone and turned on the shower. He took his time washing, erasing the sweat and other dried evidence of their lovemaking off his body before he even began to wash his hair or body. When he was finished, he stepped out, cinched a towel low over his hips, and headed back out to find an outfit appropriate for the events of the day.

No one would know exactly who he was, but it was better that way. Many of Peter's colleagues would be faces with no names, or names with no faces that sent cards, and his family would no doubt be used to the secrecy that came with his line of work. Mycroft pondered on that as he began to cross the soft carpet, only to feel a prickle on the back of his neck, reminding him that for the first time in his life, he was not alone in his room. He turned slowly to find Greg watching him through sleepy eyes, looking for all the world like someone who'd just woken up after a very good night, if the small smile on his face was any indication.

Something in Mycroft's face must have alerted him that things had already gone sideways, because the smile faded to be replaced with concern.

"Everything okay, My? I thought I was going to wake up wrapped around you, but I see that something's up."

"I… A former colleague of mine has died." Greg winced, and the sympathy in his eyes reminded Mycroft that, as a cop, he had probably lost people he'd known and cared about to the work as well. He would understand, to a degree, the way it made the politician feel. There was something incredibly nice about that, and he found himself waking to the bed instead of the closet, taking a seat because his body was almost completely dry anyway.

Instantly Greg was there, pulling him into his arms, and they sat there like that for a long moment.

"I wasn't sure if you would want to come or not. I have my driver picking up clothes for you, regardless." Realizing that it was pretty presumptuous of him to have done so, he blushed a little, which the cop noticed. He smiled a little in quiet amusement and waited a beat before putting Mycroft out of his misery.

"That was nice of you. Thanks. Is the wake today, then?"

"Yes. And the funeral. They're doing it all in one day, because it's a closed casket, for obvious reasons." Mycroft hadn't needed that explained to him. He'd simply known, because Peter had entered an even more dangerous line of work than he'd had under Mycroft, and for the wake and funeral to be smashed together suggested that it was better to get the poor man in the ground. It wasn't the first time Mycroft had been to a rushed funeral like that.

"Right. So I take it your driver's bringing me a suit so I don't look completely ridiculous next to you?" Despite the seriousness of the occasion, Greg couldn't resist teasing Mycroft a little. Predictably, the other man couldn't look at him as he responded, face still beautifully pink.

"You would look incredible if you wore a bed sheet to the wake, Gregory." It was the politician's turn to catch Greg off guard, and the DI smiled affectionately at his lover, snagging his towel when he went to stand again. It dropped to the floor, and Mycroft turned around to blink at him, startled, as he let his eyes scan up and down, observing what seemed like miles of creamy, freckled flesh.

"Not bad looking yourself there, love." Despite not being lost to passion, Greg decided it was safe to use endearments. He and Mycroft had been friends for a long time, but even after being lovers only for a night, he felt comfortable enough with it to let himself get attached. He wasn't going anywhere anytime soon. He was not a man who did one night stands, and considering he was Mycroft's first, he could only assume that the younger man felt the same.

"I… thank you?" Mycroft said, looking lost for words as he turned to his closet, trusting that the familiar three piece suits he was always in wouldn't be half as confusing as the man who had yet to stir from his bed.

"Is that a question, or a comment?" Greg smirked, stretching languidly. Mycroft caught himself watching in his peripheral vision, and tried to snap himself out of it. It was ridiculous, he thought, how he couldn't get enough despite how often they'd had each other the night before.

"A bit of both, I think. Now, are you going to get out of bed? I imagine you would feel a bit more comfortable after a shower." Mycroft said pointedly, and Greg sighed, good naturedly rising from the bed. Unlike Mycroft, he didn't feel a need to be covered up, and stood there proudly, comfortable in his nudity in a way that his lover never had been.

"You're probably right. I'm going to be sad not to smell like you anymore, though. And you've gone and taken a shower without me. That's something that I would like to instruct you on, as well." Greg mused as he strolled toward the bathroom, smiling at Mycroft's next words.

"Yes, well, if you use my soap, you'll still smell like me. And there's always next time." The DI thought this over while he cleaned himself up, enjoying the fantasy of pinning Mycroft against the shower wall, or going to his knees and making the other man scream in pleasure again… Shaking his head to clear it of the frankly delicious mental images, Greg finished up and padded back out into the bedroom, to find Mycroft already dressed, frowning at something on the screen of his phone.

"Everything okay?" Greg knew better than to ask for specifics, but the look Mycroft leveled at him was so sad it stole his breath for a moment.

"Everything is fine. But Sherlock is attempting to make me feel… guilty." And from the way he looked away before practically whispering the word, he was succeeding. Greg frowned, not sure what to do to fix the situation but well aware that he had to come up with something.

"Guilty about what, exactly? You and me?" Greg's heart skipped at the realization that Sherlock could pose a serious threat to their relationship. Mycroft did everything he could for his little brother, and if Sherlock asked him to break up with Greg, what would he do? Realizing that he wasn't sure at all, Greg watched his lover carefully.

"In a manner of speaking. He is… concerned. Sherlock says, quite correctly I'm afraid, that it is unlike me to be upset by a death. He tells me that my sentiment is clouding my judgment as far as these things are concerned."

"That's bull. Sorry, My, but your brother's wrong. I know how the two of you loathe being vulnerable, but sentiment, as you call it, is a strength, as well. It balances out."

"Perhaps. But I was the one who taught Sherlock that caring is not an advantage, Gregory. Maybe it is only right that my own words would come back to haunt me."

"When did you tell him that?" Heart beating loudly in his own ears, Greg waited patiently, hoping that the answer wouldn't rip his hopes to shreds.

"Not terribly long before his Fall. We were discussing ordinary people, and he asked me if there was something wrong with us, that we do not feel as others do. Or rather, we didn't. Now, it seems that I have changed." Mycroft's words were quiet and contemplative, and he missed Greg's exhale of relief. The cop walked over and pulled him into his arms, and the younger man went willingly, resting his forehead on the DI's shoulder for a few seconds, his phone forgotten.

"Do you want me to talk to Sherlock, or would you prefer to deal with it on your own?" Greg made the offer already knowing what the answer would be.

"I will have to discuss it with Sherlock at a better time. However, it would seem that Frederic is here. I shall fetch your suit. Back in a moment." Mycroft was true to his word, and Greg dressed in silence. There was clearly quite a lot to think about, and he needed time to process.

Mycroft treated him to breakfast on the way, though he himself didn't eat, instead flipping through files that his driver had wordlessly handed him before closing the door of the car. The government man spent the entire ride, including food break, reading through the contents, and by the time they arrived at the church and funeral grounds, where they were doing a combined wake and funeral, he had a grim but satisfied expression on his face.

When the two men stepped out of the car, Anthea was already at Mycroft's elbow, and he whispered something quietly to her. She slipped away and came back before they even got in the door, nodding to him. Greg didn't have to ask to know what had happened.

The files would have contained a report of how exactly Peter had died, and Mycroft had figured out who was responsible and taken care of the situation. Greg would likely never know the details of it, but it was enough to know that the problem was being taken care of almost effortlessly. He was a little awed at the power his lover possessed, and that thought remained on his mind as they entered the church. Mycroft greeted the family and offered his condolences, as well as alerting the man's widow that the government would see to it that she received benefits to help with the children's education.

The widow was dry eyed—she'd always known that the risk to Peter's life was great—but thanked him warmly, and then they were moving on, back out into the yard, and Mycroft was lighting a cigarette, taking a drag, and offering it to Greg.

Two more shared cigs later and the pallbearers were lifting the casket and it was being put in the ground, dirt was piled on, and those who had known him best spoke. Then it was time to go home, while questions swirled in Greg's mind, and Mycroft remained silent, staring out the window until they pulled up to the flat.

Thanking Frederic in a low murmur, Mycroft slid gracefully out, leaving Greg to follow him. Disconcerted by the politician's distance, he nonetheless followed him up.

As soon as the doors opened, something changed. Mycroft spun and kissed the older man almost desperately, as if he was seeking air and this was the only way he could get it. After a few moments, the silver haired man decided just to go with it, and found himself out of breath, tumbling into bed and rocking against the younger man until they were both crying their release.

Mycroft was the one who went and got the towel to clean them up now, and when he was done, he collapsed on the bed, back turned to Greg as he slipped, exhausted, into sleep.

Stunned, Gregory stared at the ceiling, wondering why it felt like they'd backslid. Something about their hurried, unromantic coupling bothered him, and it didn't take him long to realize why. They'd gone from making love the night before to having sex, a distinction he'd made clear to Mycroft only last night. He felt hollow, unsatisfied, because even though his body was sated, his heart was breaking a little, both for his partner and for himself, because he realized that getting Mycroft's shields to disappear completely was going to require more than just one night of passion and pleasure.

No, if Greg wanted things to work, he would need to be persistent. He had no doubt that Mycroft was worth the effort, but he also knew that the younger man was stubborn. Feeling vulnerable due to emotions, he'd reacted to his brother's words by shutting himself away again. And though he hadn't even quite realized it was happening, Greg decided to keep it in mind for next time, so he could at least try to prevent this from happening again. He didn't want false intimacy, and wasn't looking for a purely sex-driven relationship.

Determinedly, the DI slid out of bed, put on his clothes, and scrawled a note on fancy cream cardstock from Mycroft's desk, leaving it on the unoccupied pillow. He knew the other man would find it in the morning, and if he thought this was worth it, he would come and find Greg. If not… well, he was just really, really hoping that Mycroft could find it in himself to let his guard down. If he couldn't, they would both be missing out.

The cop slipped out, and Mycroft slept through the entire night dreamlessly, for which he could only be grateful when he woke. But something was wrong. He frowned, thinking back to the night before. He distinctly remembered falling asleep with Gregory, and had promised himself that when he woke, they would talk. Greg, however, wasn't there. Instead of waking in his lovers arms, he woke up cold and alone.

Startled by the pain that fact caused him, he almost didn't notice the card lying on the pillow. He wasn't a Holmes for nothing, however, and hastily snatched it up, scanning it intently. Greg's handwriting was steady, if a bit heavy, and Mycroft understood, without even needing to read the words, that he'd been sad but calm when he'd left. Then he read, praying the words weren't a breakup.

_Mycroft,_

_I understand that you are used to keeping a certain amount of distance from everyone. I don't want you to change, but if we are going to do this, I am going to need you to not keep that same distance with me. I know that it'll be hard for you, so I want you to take your time and figure out what it is you really want: a partner, or a convenience. I'm not angry, but I want more than a detached bedmate. If you want to commit to this… well, you know where to find me. _

There was no signature, but then, a signature wasn't really necessary. An uncomfortable burning sensation pricked behind Mycroft's eyes, and he realized, stunned, that the burn was caused by a need to cry. It was thanks to that that he realized he didn't need time to figure out what he wanted. Gregory was more than a convenience to him, and he realized that he'd made the older man feel undervalued the night before. He promised himself, even as he planned his next move, that he would never do so again.

Greg had done everything he could to make Mycroft feel special. Now, no matter that he was totally out of his depth, it was time to return the favor. Because he never wanted to wake up alone again.


	4. Rain

It had been five days since Greg had left Mycroft in the middle of the night. Five days, and one extremely difficult case that had nearly gotten John and Sherlock killed not once, not twice, but three times, by three different criminals who'd been working together. Greg sighed as he filled out the paperwork, which was nearly finished after three hours. It was a lot to explain to his higher ups, and he was just hoping that Sherlock's reckless habit of darting into danger without waiting for back up wasn't going to get him into too much trouble this time.

Rubbing the back of his neck, the DI dared a glance outside, only to shake his head in disgust and return his gaze to his papers for one last quick scan. It had also been five days of rain, though rain was perhaps a mild word. It was pouring down out there, and had been for several hours. Occasionally it petered off to a mere sprinkling, but it always started up again after a break of no more than half an hour.

The rain was part of why Sherlock had been so hell bent on moving forward. He hadn't wanted any evidence destroyed. After the third time _he and John_ were nearly destroyed, however, he'd finally given in and let Lestrade and his team assist. And then things had gotten better, though he and John had almost had to break up a fist fight between the consulting detective and a very pissed off Anderson after another comment about how he lowered the IQ of the entire street every time he opened his mouth.

Greg, whose patience had already been fraying, had been torn between breaking things up and simply throwing his hands up, walking away, and finding a new occupation. He knew it wasn't the fighting, or the case, or even the incessant rain that had him so upset, however, so he'd stayed. He'd kept a level head, done what needed to be done, and avoided taking his frustration and pain out on anyone else. Because no one, no matter how irritating they were, deserved to get chewed out for his feelings.

He was the one who'd walked out. He was also the one who'd told Mycroft to take his time and figure out what he really wanted. Greg just hadn't realized it would be so _hard_. It hadn't occurred to him just how much he'd really had invested in their relationship already. Even with his ex-wife, things hadn't been like this. It had been a slow build up. He hadn't just turned around one day and realized he could see himself spending the rest of his life with her. Somehow, that was exactly what had happened with Mycroft, and now, it seemed he was paying for his optimism.

A knock at the door roused the cop from his thoughts, and he huffed out a breath, running a hand through his hair as he called for the person on the other side to come on in.

"Sherlock? John? What are you two doing here?"

"You told us to come write out our statements. You won't be in tomorrow; you have this weekend off, barring serial killers. Remember?" John, always patient, spoke gently even as he tugged a scowling Sherlock to one of the chairs facing Greg before sitting in the other. The DI nodded, and John got to work filling out his report and Sherlock's.

"So you slept with my brother." There had been about five minutes of silence, broken by Sherlock's abrupt comment, and Greg actually jumped, eyes wide before he remembered the texts the younger Holmes had sent his brother. He let his eyes narrow in irritation before remembering that it still wasn't Sherlock's fault. He tried to shrug it off with a noncommittal noise, but Sherlock was never that easily distracted.

"You and Mycroft slept together and you haven't spoken in days. You're worried, but trying to tell yourself that everything will work out fine. What makes you think that? Hmm, optimism seems like a rather foolish thing, considering who you're waiting for." The words were all spoken in a mildly interested but entirely unsympathetic tone, and Greg realized that while it wasn't Sherlock's fault, that did _not_ give him a reason to rub salt in the wound. And since the warning glances John was sending the other man's way were obviously not doing the trick, he was going to have to handle the situation himself.

"One more word about my personal life, Sherlock, and there will be no cases for a week." Instantly the curly haired man closed his mouth, though he did look at Greg curiously. He hardly wondered why; it was unlike him to snap, and it was definitely unlike him to speak so coldly. If he was upset, it usually expressed itself in a quick flair of anger. Apparently he'd learned something from his time with Mycroft.

That thought brought him up short once again, and he finished proofreading his own report before taking the ones John handed over, Sherlock having scrawled his name at the bottom of one before rising to leave. At the door he paused, however, turning to pierce Greg with eyes so like his brother's that the cop had to remind himself to breathe.

"Mycroft doesn't care like everyone else, but that does not mean that he does not care at all. And it does not mean that he cannot be hurt. He simply hasn't let anyone matter enough to hurt him, until you came along. Do be careful with him." Without waiting for a response the other man left, and Greg blinked at the doorway, stunned. Had Sherlock just… warned him not to hurt Mycroft? It seemed so, and yet, it was his older brother who'd done the hurting. Wasn't it?

More confused than ever, he shrugged into his jacket, determined to put the strange conversation behind him entirely. Before he could leave, however, a startlingly pretty young woman was standing in the place Sherlock had vacated, and Greg found himself swallowing hard.

"Anthea. To what do I owe the pleasure?" He kept his tone professional, and she acknowledged it with a smile, though she didn't look up from her Blackberry.

"Mycroft has sent a car for you. It's waiting downstairs, for your convenience. He wishes to see you." She turned and walked away, job done and other matters already occupying her mind, and the DI struggled a little to keep his composure as he said goodbye to the few people who were left in the building and headed outside. He scowled at the sky as chilly droplets of water cascaded down the back of his neck on his way to the long black car, well used to the way this worked.

Often, during the course of their friendship, their busy schedules had meant that plans got delayed by work. Mycroft had spent a good amount of time waiting in a car outside the Yard, and Greg had practically become a member of the Diogenes Club, for all the time he'd spent there. They had usually managed to work things out so they had an hour or two of uninterrupted time, even if they just spent it driving around London.

Today, however, Greg had a feeling that they weren't going to be doing that. He slid into the back of the car, disappointed that Mycroft himself wasn't there. He'd been hoping… but no. It was probably better to have whatever conversation they were going to have without a driver listening on, no matter how discreet the younger man's staff typically was. No use inciting a scandal.

Still, he was a little surprised when they pulled up outside the building that housed Mycroft's flat. He'd half expected a meeting in an abandoned warehouse, like the first time they'd met. This gave him a small measure of hope, and he thanked the driver—this one named Phillip—before jogging into the building to try and stay somewhat dry.

The elevator took him right up, and he knocked at the door to Mycroft's flat, hoping that the other man was here already. If he wasn't, it was likely to be a long wait, considering how many hands he had to hold on a daily basis. Greg had once joked that the elder Holmes got all the patience for dealing with idiots, to which Mycroft had replied, with a hint of a smile on his face, that it wasn't patience, simply good acting. Now, Greg hoped he was up to acting with equal skill. He wasn't sure he wanted Mycroft to know how affected he'd been by the five days away. And if things went badly… well, then he was certain it was better to keep it buried.

Just then the door opened, and the cop had to stop himself from staring. Mycroft was dressed almost casually, in a button down with rolled up sleeves and dark jeans, and though Greg had never seen him anything but suits, he realized that this was what Mycroft wore in his own territory, on his own time. The distinction was clear: work was not going to be interfering with their night.

Swallowing, Greg stepped inside when the younger man stood back and gestured for him to enter, and he stayed still while the door was shut behind him, shivering a little when a hot breath teased the back of his neck.

"Welcome, Gregory. I'm pleased that you accepted my invitation." Mycroft's voice was pitched low, and Greg wondered if he even realized how sexy he was. He didn't seem to be as conscious of that sort of thing as his brother was, and that was probably because unlike Sherlock, he wasn't accustomed to using his body as a tool. Somehow, that made him even more attractive.

"Was saying no really a possibility?" The words were meant as a tease, but Mycroft frowned as he moved around to look Greg in the eyes, obviously taking his words seriously.

"Yes. For anyone else, it wouldn't have been, but you are different." The words were honest, and that allowed Greg to relax, his shoulders losing a week's worth of tension on the heels of a long exhale.

"Different how?" Relief had lifted most of the weight on his chest, but Greg still needed to be absolutely sure.

"Different in every way possible. I didn't mean to use you, Gregory. I have never had a relationship before, but it occurred to me, after reading your note, that you were quite correct. I was upset, and should have discussed things with you instead of trying to forget myself in sex. I took the time you told me to, and have come to the conclusion that I do want this to work, and am willing to try to bring my shields down, even when it is difficult. I cannot promise I will always be able to do so, and I am likely to screw many more things up, but I do hope that you are willing to give us another chance."

Greg stepped forward, drawing Mycroft in with a gentle hand for a long, lingering, sweet kiss. When they broke apart, Mycroft smiled a little crookedly, which meant that the expression was genuine.

"Now that that's out of the way… how about I take you out for another apology dinner?" Greg laughed at that, smiling and twining his fingers with the politician's before stealing another kiss.

"I guess that's fine."

"Are you okay with walking?" Mycroft inquired as he grabbed his keys and wallet off the coffee table, shoving them into his pockets. His phone, Greg noticed, stayed exactly where it was. That was a huge concession, and as a result, the cop nearly forgot about the weather. But since it had been plaguing him for a week, it managed to stick with him.

"Are you sure you want to walk in the rain?" The cop asked, earning another little smile. Mycroft's eyes practically sparkled.

"There will always be rain, Gregory. But as long as you pay attention, you can be prepared for nearly anything. Why do you think I always carry an umbrella?"

"I dunno. I guess I thought it was a disguised weapon or something, actually." Greg said sheepishly, earning a small chuckle as they into the elevator, both of them holding the handle as an excuse to touch, even in such an innocent way.

"Sometimes an umbrella is just an umbrella in my world. Though I do have another umbrella that has a few surprises in it, I suppose. I don't think we'll need either of them tonight, however." Mycroft's tone was amused as the elevator dinged to announce their landing on the ground floor.

"And why is that?" Greg asked, too busy looking at Mycroft to look out the door. As soon as they stepped outside, however, he realized what the younger man meant. Mycroft smiled as he looked up at the sky.

"It would seem that the sun has finally chosen to come out."

And looking at Mycroft's sunny smile, the most unguarded expression he'd ever seen on the man, Greg found himself smiling back.

"Yes, it seems that way."


	5. Shot

**A/N: Hello, my wonderful readers! This bit is a little shorter, but I plan to make it up to you with a chapter of smut next time (probably tomorrow). I do hope you like it, and if you have any ideas for things you'd like to see, feel free to let me know. I'll make no promises, but I'm grateful to everyone who has liked this story, and enjoy giving back. For now, enjoy!**

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Greg stared out the window, a hand loosely wrapped around a bottle of beer as he watched lightning flash and light up the London skyline. Barely an hour after he and Mycroft had returned home from their date, right when they were about to engage in what he was sure would have been truly fantastic make up sex, Mycroft's phone had started going off rather insistently. He'd been unable to ignore the temptation while it was sitting there in front of him, but Greg didn't really blame him. His job was important, and for a long time, had really been Mycroft's only priority, besides his brother. Things were already adjusting, but he had a feeling he'd gotten his lover to bend as far as possible, because their relationship was so new.

It had been a week since the politician had apologetically handed Greg a key to his flat and told him to make himself at home whenever he felt like it, and darted off before he could say so much as thank you. Instead of taking the weekend off, he'd decided to go in to work, but his higher ups had insisted that he take the next two days to relax. That was the last thing he felt like doing.

The sound of footsteps at the door made the cop turn, and a key rattled in the lock, suggesting that Mycroft didn't know he was here. That was okay. He would be pretty happy to surprise him, as long as the government man was pleased to see him. And why would he have given him a key if not to get him to come visit?

The door swung open, and Mycroft came in, Anthea on his heels. He was obviously frustrated about something, and so was she. They didn't realize yet that Greg was there, too busy talking to one another.

"It's little more than a scratch, Anthea. I am fine." His voice was stiff, the tone he used to express extreme displeasure, but his PA was no fainting daisy.

"You were nearly shot, sir. You're lucky the bullet barely nicked you." The DI was startled by Mycroft's calmness in face of the situation. In fact, Anthea didn't seem remotely upset by the fact that he'd been shot at either, exactly. It was more the fact that the bullet had come close to causing actual damage.

"You were shot?" Instantly he was up off the couch, walking over and looking his lover over. Anthea and Mycroft shared a surprised glance, and then his assistant nodded to Greg thoughtfully.

"I think I'm leaving you in good hands here, Mr. Holmes. I'm increasing your security team's numbers until we catch the guy, but for now, it's probably best if you stay home. I'm sure that DI Lestrade is capable of taking care of your little scrape. Oh, and sir? You have the next two days off. No arguments; I'm not going to risk your life over a meeting with those ridiculous Americans. Honestly, they think they own the whole globe."

Anthea strolled out, and Mycroft was left to look sheepishly at Greg. They'd texted occasionally, but he'd conveniently left out the small chunk of flesh the bullet had torn away. Looking at the cop now, it occurred to him that that might have been a mistake. If they were planning to get naked anytime soon, he was going to see it. That boded ill.

"I… Not really, no. It brushed by my arm. That's all." Greg's face was a few shades paler than normal, and Mycroft sighed, realizing that he would probably have some explaining to do. Determined to show his lover that it truly wasn't as bad as he obviously feared, Mycroft shrugged off his suit jacket and undid his shirt, laying both neatly over the back of the couch so he would remember to put them properly in the hamper later.

"Here. See? Not so bad." A shallow dip that was already scabbing over, the graze wound was little more than an inch long, and hadn't even bled that much. Worrisome was the fact that the assassin hadn't been caught yet. Mycroft knew it was only a matter of time, and had shared with his assistant his hunch as to who was responsible, but Greg didn't look reassured at all.

"I didn't even get properly shot, Gregory. I am fine." Reaching up to cup the older man's face, Mycroft pressed a kiss to his lips, trying to get across to the other man that he was completely fine.

"You got shot _at_, though, My. And I can't pretend I'm okay with that. How did your team let this happen? Aren't they supposed to watch you at all times?"

"That was the problem, actually. They were watching me, and not the environment around us, which is what they are supposed to do. Fortunately, I noticed the sun glinting off the barrel and dove out of the way before the would-be assassin got off a proper shot. Anthea reamed my people out, and they've been replaced. It won't happen again, so you needn't worry."

"Oh, so I'm not supposed to worry that _you got shot at?_" Mycroft sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. This was the last conversation he wanted to have just now, and if Anthea hadn't been scolding him about it, he might have been able to get away with blaming it on a trip or something.

"I really wish you would quit saying it like that. Also, you really shouldn't end a sentence with a preposition." In response to this Greg unleashed a slew of curse words that had him wincing, the headache that had been brewing gaining strength. Stepping away from the cop, who was obviously not going to be sensible anytime soon, Mycroft headed to the kitchen, pouring himself a glass of water and fetching some pain medicine. He'd expected the action to result in another lecture, but instead, Greg instantly quieted, looking at the pained expression on his face.

"Can I do anything to help? Get you ice or… something?" Belatedly he realized that the appropriate reaction was _not_ to yell at someone for something out of their control, but instead to offer comfort. Greg's only excuse was that he was rusty at this and… well, hell, Mycroft being anyone's target was terrifying to him.

"If you could keep your voice lowered, that would be much appreciated. Other than that, I think I'm fine." Mycroft sounded tired, and Greg wondered when the last time he'd slept had been. He knew that the younger man was almost as bad at taking care of himself as Sherlock was, but that he was better at covering it up.

"Okay. Would you like food, or just to sleep?" Greg continued, careful to keep his voice down. Now that his anger and terror for the other man had worn away, he was able to be rational again, and fully intended to make up for his behavior.

"Sleep would be best for now, I believe." Mycroft didn't object when Greg walked over and put an arm around his waist, pulling him in for a sideways hug before practically dragging him to the bedroom. He hadn't realized how tired he was before he'd gotten home, but it was starting to hit now with a vengeance. He was asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow, and Greg's voice followed him into his dreams.

"Sleep now, darling. I'll be here when you wake up."


	6. Fire

**A/N: Hello again! This chapter's a bit longer than the last one, and was sort of inspired by this really great song by Neon Trees, called "Close To You." Most people think of "fire" as passion alone, but in this case, I wanted it to be about more. Like in the song, it's as much about need as it is about soothing them both. Greg is having his fears burned away. Now, I'll stop boring you with my thought processes and let you get to the story!**

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Mycroft was roused by a pair of lips on his, two strong arms wrapped tight around him, and a slight stinging sensation on his arm. Memories rushed back to him, and he opened his eyes, confusion obvious. Greg smiled, kissing him deeper until his eyes closed again, and he sighed into the kiss.

"Good morning, beautiful." Greg murmured against his lips when they parted for breath, and Mycroft stared at him wonderingly.

"I'd have thought you would have gone. I know you were quite upset with me last night." The words were uncertain, and the cop instantly understood his lover's train of thought. It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that Mycroft had expected Greg to leave, as he had the last time he'd upset him. But Mycroft had quite a lot more to learn about emotions, and Greg didn't mind teaching him in the least.

"I wasn't really angry with you, Mycroft. I was angry that you were shot at, and I am still very upset with whoever was responsible for that, but I was never angry at you. The thought of losing you was what had me so upset. When someone I care about is threatened, I tend to react like a mother bear. I'm a little overprotective, but that really just means that you matter to me, and would hate to lose you."

Mycroft, who hadn't had anyone actually say that he mattered to them on a personal level since his childhood, simply stared. Greg pulled him in for another kiss, trying to express with gentle nips and strokes of his tongue all the things he was feeling. Mycroft didn't react much at first, his brain obviously whirling, but then he was suddenly fully engaged, and Greg knew he'd quit thinking so he could just absorb the kiss.

Being with Mycroft was interesting because when he was focused on something, it had his complete attention. He wasn't as manic as his brother, but his attention was absolute. There was nothing else for him in that moment but the kiss, and the small moan he let out said that he was enjoying it very much. Greg wondered what it would be like to play sensory deprivation games with Mycroft, when he was so responsive already, but just now he wanted to look into his lover's eyes and let him hear how badly Greg wanted him. Those sorts of things could wait for another day.

For now, Greg slid his hand down Mycroft's chest in a feather light touch, making the younger man shiver and arch his back for more contact. It was lovely, the cop thought absently, the way Mycroft was so naked in his need. For someone who had very previously been a virgin, he was incredibly uninhibited, and that only added to both their pleasure. His complete trust was the ultimate turn on to Greg, whose instincts for protection had taken over in a big way when he thought about life without this.

Without warning, he shifted them so Mycroft was beneath him. He'd undressed him the night before, down to his pants, so the younger man's body was basically his playground. And play he would, he decided with a wicked grin. He bent his head and took one rosy nipple into his mouth, earning a small whimper of pleasure.

Mycroft felt like he was on fire. Everywhere Greg's hands brushed or lingered, from the inside of his knee to his neck right over the pulse, felt like it was going up in flames. And he couldn't care less. His body was burning up with desire and need, and in that moment, he wouldn't have had it any other way. Greg seemed to feel the same, because the searing look he sent Mycroft was also surprisingly tender before he slid lower, until he could mouth at Mycroft through the thin fabric barrier.

Hissing out a breath at the gentle friction, Mycroft gripped tightly to the sheets, unable to prevent the small cry that left him when Greg slid his pants out of the way and took him into his mouth. The heat of Greg's mouth made his skin tingle, and it wasn't all that long before he was a panting, sobbing mess, begging for relief. The older man knew exactly how to touch him, somehow, and he was keeping his movements just right to tease, but not quite intense enough to offer him release.

Sensing how close he was to the edge, Greg moved away, earning a moan of protest before he moved up the younger man for another smoldering kiss, one that had them both gasping for air. The room felt way too hot, like the world was on fire, and Greg chuckled before latching onto Mycroft's neck, sucking over his pulse and earning delicate shivers that were deliciously at odds with the hardness of the younger man's length, caught between them, ground against him with every shift of their hips.

"What do you want, Mycroft?" Greg whispered against his skin before nipping at his ear.

"Aah! I want you!" The confession was practically ripped from him, but he was too far gone to care that he was dangerously close to begging. He trusted Greg to take care of him, and this was just another part of that. He wouldn't torture him, wouldn't play these games without giving them both what they needed. But he might draw it out, and that was a distinct possibility.

Before, the sex had been about emotion. While there had definitely been physical gratification, it had mostly been about the connection between them, or an attempt to forget. Mycroft had learned the difference between making love and having decent but ultimately unsatisfying sex. Now, he was going to learn about fantastic sex, Greg decided.

"How do you want me?" He practically purred, using the exact tone of voice that always made Mycroft's pupils blow wide with desire. "Do you want me inside you, or do you want to be inside me? Do you want it fast, or slow, and do you want to be taken from behind or do you want me to ride you?"

Greg knew exactly what images he was putting in Mycroft's head, and it was all part of the seduction. To have this man panting for him was a miracle in and of itself, but the fact that they could have this again and again, whenever they wanted… it was undoing him as fast as he was undoing his lover, and he knew that he couldn't keep up the teasing much longer. The fire in the pit of his stomach was only growing hotter, and he would need to release soon.

"Greg!" It was the first time Mycroft had ever shortened his name, and it drove him over the edge. Growling with desire, the cop grabbed the lube from the nightstand and quickly slipped a finger inside himself, quickly adding another to stretch himself and hopefully…

"Yes!" He cried out, moving his fingers faster. He'd been wondering if Mycroft would enjoy taking him as much as he'd enjoyed doing the taking, and judging by the fire in his eyes when Greg looked down at him, the answer was yes. He slowly withdrew his fingers before pouring lube into his hand and slicking it over Mycroft, who hissed at the sensation. It was like ice against fire, since he hadn't warmed it first, but there was no time. Need was urgent, his blood thrumming fast beneath his skin and flowing southward, all of his focus trained on the moment when Greg sank down on him slowly, taking him all the way in with his head thrown back in rapture.

Mycroft's breath caught in his throat at the image of Greg going down on him, and it was several moments before he remembered, when his head started feeling fuzzy, that he should probably start the process up again. Even that was an annoyance—he wanted his full attention to be on his lover, and even needing to devote such a small part of himself to anything else seemed ridiculous.

Greg began to move slowly, riding him almost languidly, and Mycroft thought that it was probably the first time heat had made him shiver. His body felt like an inferno, and he knew that he was going to blow at any minute.

Almost as if sensing his thoughts, Greg slowly lowered his head to look at him, heavy-lidded eyes making his pleasure obvious. His inner muscles clenched as their eyes locked, and Mycroft's hands flew to his hips, holding tightly while those slow, smooth movements added fuel to the flames. Unable to hold back when his lover looked so wanton, Mycroft thrust his hips upward, earning a surprised yelp as Greg clenched around him. Realizing what he'd done, he rocked his hips up to hit the same spot again and again until it was Greg who was quivering, small noises that sounded almost like moans escaping him with every small movement.

Mycroft flipped them, then, and began to slide in and out of his lover much more quickly, chasing the fire that was starting to consume them both. Greg looked stunned, but then he tangled his hands with Mycroft's and leaned his head up to kiss him.

When it occurred to him that Greg would probably need a little more stimulation, Mycroft smiled almost devilishly before letting go of one hand so he could reach between them and stroke the older man. Greg bucked into his hand gasping from pleasure.

"So close, so close, please, oh, so close…" Greg obviously wasn't aware he was even speaking, and Mycroft wondered if this was what he looked like to the older man when he was writhing beneath him, desperate for release. If it was even half this intoxicating, he wondered how Greg even had the strength to leave their bed. Well, he was just going to make sure that his lover didn't go anywhere anytime soon, he though, speeding up. He, too, was close.

Mycroft slid his thumb over Greg's tip and he exploded between them, coming with a shout that likely would have woken the neighbors, if he'd had any. He considered himself very lucky that he didn't, because Gregory's orgasm had made his every muscle spasm, and when he tightened around Mycroft, he found his own release, and echoed Greg even as he spilled into him.

It took several minutes for either of them to find the strength to move, by which time they were both more than a little sticky. Grimacing at the splatter on both their chests, Mycroft studied Greg before deciding that looked like he could, in fact, stand up now. He rose and pulled his lover to his feet, leading him to the bathroom and turning the shower on.

"You know, I've always wondered what shower sex is like," Mycroft mused before tugging Greg in under the spray and into his arms for another fiery kiss. Greg laughed against his lips, stroking his cheek affectionately.

"Are you going to give me a few minutes to gear up for round two? I did just experience one of the best orgasms of my life, and I'm not eighteen anymore, My." Greg sounded amused, but Mycroft frowned. It hadn't occurred to him, honestly, that they would have to take breaks in between. But maybe, he thought as the water cascaded on them and cooled his heated skin, that was a good thing. It would give him a chance to make sure his lover was truly okay after his irritation from the night before.

"Take your time then, Gregory. I'm hardly going to throw you out for not engaging in intercourse every five minutes. Besides, I've always wondered what it is like to even shower with another person, even aside from sex. There's a large degree of intimacy to it, one that I have never before experienced. And I think I quite like it."

Smiling, Mycroft laid his head on Greg's shoulder, simply resting for a minute before grabbing the soap, mischief twinkling in his eyes. Greg nearly cursed when he slid soapy hands down his chest and cupped him, fingers stroking gently over his sensitized skin.

Greg had to bite his lip to keep from moaning at how good it felt before Mycroft was moving on, gently soaping down every inch of him. He blinked when he realized that this was the younger man's way of soothing him, both because of the sex and because of the bullet he'd very nearly taken. Touched, Greg spun when he was told to, letting Mycroft stroke soap over his entire body before gently rinsing him off.

When that was done, Greg claimed another kiss before offering the same. It was a definite change of pace, from sex that lit them both on fire to these almost lazy caresses, but it somehow worked for them. When they were both scrubbed clean, they kissed for a minute or two after turning the water off, then got out. Wrapping a towel around his waist, Mycroft gestured for Greg to wait, and quickly returned with a change of clothes for both of them.

"You're going to be the death of me, walking around the flat in that towel like that. You're entirely too sexy for your own good, you know that, Mycroft?" The younger man smiled and blushed a little at the compliment, and Greg felt the glow of it everywhere on his skin as he slid into a pair of jeans that seemed strangely familiar. At his questioning look, Mycroft shrugged.

"I figured that you might want a few of your clothes to stay over here, since this is where we spend most of our time. I had Frederic bring a few things you don't often wear over, with the stipulation that they be comfortable. I also got you another suit like the one you wear to work, just in case you spend the night and don't have time to get back to your flat to change."

Anyone else might have been offended by Mycroft's forwardness, but Greg was just too touched. With all the younger man had to deal with on a daily basis, the fact that something that small had occurred to him felt like an incredible gesture, and it was one he didn't take lightly.

He kissed him slowly, reverently, stroking his fingers carefully down his injured arm to twine their fingers together.

"Thank you," he murmured. "Now, I'm pretty sure I offered to feed you last night. Since you declined, I'm just going to have to make you breakfast."

Mycroft shrugged, feeling incredibly content as they wandered to the kitchen. He grabbed a bar stool and watched Greg work, competently blending eggs and milk, pouring them into a pan, and making toast. He seemed to be everywhere at once, and it didn't take very long at all before he settled in beside him, putting a plate of food in front of both of them.

"You're very good in the kitchen," Mycroft commented, tucking into his food like a man who hadn't eaten for days. There was every possibility he hadn't; he couldn't honestly remember if he'd actually managed food in between meetings, or if he'd only contemplated it. It didn't matter much either way, since his body hadn't given out on him, he supposed.

Greg shot him a strange look, something between amusement and confusion.

"It's just scrambled eggs and toast. Anyone can do that." Mycroft shook his head at this, chuckling a little.

"That is most definitely not true. My last foray into the kitchen resulted in burned butter before I even managed to get food into the pan. The worst part was that I didn't even notice it until I'd ruined my meal completely. My flat smelled like fire for three days."  
"So how do you feed yourself, then? You have a stocked pantry and all, so I don't think you starve."

"I have a woman named Madeline come in and cook for me a couple days every week, and she usually makes extra things and puts them in the fridge, so if I don't feel like going out I can just heat them up. I can work the microwave." The last bit was an afterthought, but Greg found it incredibly amusing.

"I am going to have to teach you how to cook, then." He said determinedly, earning a smile and a shake of Mycroft's head.

"You can try, but I can only imagine you'll fail. I used to try to cook for myself and Sherlock when we were younger and our parents were away, but nothing ever turned out quite right. Sherlock ate it, of course, so as to not hurt my feelings, but even I knew I wasn't going to win any awards."

Shrugging, Greg spoke without thinking.

"I guess I'd just better stay forever, then, so you always have someone around to make sure you actually get fed." He froze after he spoke, but Mycroft, smiling softly, didn't seem to notice that his words were a slip of the tongue. And he didn't seem upset about it, either.

Just then there was a knock, and Mycroft sighed. Greg, who'd been about to ask what exactly had caused the tension between the brothers if they'd truly been close when they were younger to cover up his words, frowned a little. It had been a good opportunity to get his lover to open up. He could only hope that another chance would arise soon.

Mycroft opened the door and was a little stunned to see his little brother. Undaunted, Sherlock entered without an invitation, raising an eyebrow at Greg's presence, and the breakfast sat for two. Almost as if it had just occurred to him, he turned to look at his brother, head tilted ever so slightly to the side.

"Have I interrupted something?" His voice insinuated that he knew very well that he had, but Mycroft noticed the way his eyes darted quickly to his arm before snapping back up to his face, and instantly understood why his brother was here. Predictably, John Watson came hurrying in just moments later, sighing in exasperation.

"I am terribly sorry, Mycroft. Sherlock insisted we come over here. Anthea told him about the near miss in order to get swift results finding the shooter, and the git couldn't be bothered to wait for a civilized hour to come speak with you. We did catch the guy, though." He tacked on at the end, although it was obvious that he had by the faint scrape on his left cheek, probably from tackling the man to the pavement.

"Come to amuse yourself, Sherlock? Or did you just want to see proof that I do bleed?" Mycroft's words were cool, but Greg didn't miss the sadness that flickered in his eyes. This was how the brothers always interacted, and that evidently hurt the elder. And judging by the way Sherlock paused, biting his lip as if hesitant to speak, he wondered if that regret was mutual.

"I… the bullets were homemade, and as such, could contain toxic substances. I thought you might like a doctor to examine the wound, just to make sure there's no chance of infection. It would be a shame if I didn't have to dismantle cameras in the living room every other week anymore." It definitely wasn't the tone one loving brother typically used with another, but Sherlock's eyes, for once, betrayed his concern. Sensing this, Mycroft let down his guard a little, though he didn't doubt that Sherlock would say something rude later that would make him regret that. He'd tried many times before to get through to his little brother, but it hadn't worked before. Then again, John hadn't been a part of the equation before…

Watching his brother closely, Mycroft unbuttoned his shirt and sat it on the bar, gesturing for John to go ahead and take a look. He did so, producing antiseptic and a plaster after a satisfied nod and tending to the injury.

"See, Sherlock? I told you he'd be fine. Nothing to worry about." John paused, noticing that the brothers were observing one another very intently. "Greg, can you show me to the bathroom so I can wash up?"

"Of course, John. It's right this way." Greg, understanding that John wanted to give the brothers a private moment, lead him back the hall, staying put while the doctor washed his hands.

In the kitchen, Mycroft and Sherlock watched one another awkwardly, each waiting for the other to say something, to make or break the moment.

"I'm sorry you were almost killed." It took Mycroft a moment to realize that Sherlock had expressed sorrow for him almost being killed, instead of sorrow he hadn't been killed. It had been a long time since that hadn't been the vein of thought behind his words, after all, and it took the elder Holmes several moments to figure out what to say.

"Thank you." They were silent for another beat, and then:

"I would be… displeased, were you to die." It was such an un-Sherlock thing to say that Mycroft honestly couldn't come up with a response to the stilted but seemingly genuine words. He settled for nodding, and couldn't help feeling a little relieved when Greg and John came back. After so many years of discord, he wasn't sure he was quite ready for another shift in his relationship with his brother. He wanted a little time to process it.

"Ready to go then, Sherlock? We should really leave Greg and Mycroft to their breakfast."

"Hmm? Oh, yes. Quite right." The consulting detective turned around and swept out without so much as a goodbye, and John shook his head, shooting an amused smile at the couple before waving, telling Mycroft to heal up soon, and following the genius who had probably gotten into a taxi and forgotten about him, too busy processing the events of the morning.

"Are you all right, My?" The government man was a shade paler than normal, and his expression was distant, as if his mind was far afield. When Greg spoke, he seemed to snap out of it somewhat.

"I believe so, yes."

"That was kind of strange. I didn't think Sherlock was the type to worry even if he knew you were fine. He must care a lot about you."

Mycroft shrugged, brow furrowing a little at the statement. He knew Greg was trying his hardest not to pry into the situation, but as grateful as he was for that, he also knew that no matter how confused he was, he needed to try and let his lover know what he was thinking and feeling. It was important to the older man, and thus, to him.

"It would seem so, yes. Sherlock and I were very close when we were younger. He was just reaching his teenage years when I went away to college, however, and he was… upset. He resented me for leaving him alone, and over the years, that resentment seemed to turn almost to hatred. He calls me his archenemy, you know? This was very… strange, for him."

"Perhaps he's finally realized that you aren't to blame for needing to live your own life?" Greg inquired gently, earning a confused but hopeful smile.

"Perhaps so. How would you feel about a day curled up in front of the fire, drinking wine and making love on the rug until we both pass out from exhaustion?"

Licking his lips, the cop tugged his lover close, taking advantage of his shirtless state to press his lips to that long, pale neck, nipping gently over the pulse.

"I think that sounds like a lovely idea. You get the wine, I'll light the fire."


	7. Care

**A/N: Hello, my lovely readers! We all know Mycroft has difficulty expressing his emotions, but I hope I pulled this off without making him too OOC. Do let me know what you think!**

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Mycroft sighed as he stared at the papers in front of him, covering in painstaking detail the deaths of six agents of the British Government, the arrangements for whom it was now his job to take care of. He'd been a field agent once, and knew how difficult it was for the families. Fortunately, he'd always come home on his own two feet, instead of in a body bag, but he had known men and women who hadn't been so lucky, and he'd always hated to be the one who told the families. That was a duty no one wanted.

It hadn't been so difficult before. Mycroft had become very good at making himself believe that he was the Iceman the rest of the world believed him to be, but now that Gregory had come into his life, and made him admit that he did care about things, he'd come to the conclusion that in his line of work, caring really wasn't an advantage. It made hard but necessary tasks even more difficult, and that made it tricky to pretend he wasn't aching for the families when he delivered the news to them, one by one, earlier that day.

Now, he stared at the papers in front of him, figuring out which agents could be fixed up well enough for open caskets and which ones would have to be closed. It was exhausting work, and by the time he was done, it was nearly eleven at night. So much, he thought wistfully, for the surprise date he'd been planning to take Gregory on, before the news had come to his office that morning.

Rubbing at the bridge of his nose, Mycroft pushed back from his desk and snagged his umbrella. The work had been difficult for more than one reason. One of the agents had had curly black hair, and just that had been enough to freeze his blood. Seeing those cold, flat eyes in the pictures, he'd felt fear seize him. He was always worried about his little brother, no matter how often Sherlock had insisted otherwise, and after his little foray around the globe to wipe out Moriarty's web, Mycroft's worry had only grown.

Knowing it was probably a bad idea, but unable to help himself now that the thought was there, Mycroft hurried home to grab a change of clothes before heading over to 221B Baker Street, just to check on Sherlock. No doubt he was up playing violin or experimenting on something that would make most people cringe, but his insomnia was good for Mycroft's restless mind at the moment.

There was a low fire burning when he let himself into his flat, and he saw Greg curled up on the couch, one arm cast over his eyes as he breathed the deep breaths of someone who was deeply asleep. Smiling softly at his lover, the politician carefully made his way to the bedroom, trying not to wake him.

Greg, who was a light sleeper, heard the creak of the bedroom door opening and closing, and was roused instantly. His first thought was that perhaps Mycroft hadn't noticed him, but he didn't think he'd have been quite so quiet, were that the case. Frowning, he wondered if he wasn't invited to bed, only to hear the door opening again. Mycroft stilled when he saw Greg sitting up looking at him, but his expression wasn't guilty, but sad.

"Mycroft? Is everything okay?" Standing up at once, Greg walked over to hug him, holding him close. He could feel some of the tension leave him at the gesture, but he wasn't completely okay. Greg could see that from the set of his mouth, lips pulled into a tight line.

"I… Yes. Everything is fine, Gregory. I am just going to check on Sherlock."

"My, it's nearly midnight. Can't it wait until morning?" Greg frowned. Something was definitely wrong with his lover, but whatever it was, he was obviously reluctant to discuss it. Well, Greg wasn't going to stand for that.

"Not really, no. It's more for my peace of mind than anything else. You needn't concern yourself." Mycroft's tone was still a bit stiff, and Greg realized that he was a little paler than normal. He quickly looked him over, but couldn't see any physical injuries, so whatever it was must have affected him mentally.

"Of course I'm concerned, Mycroft. That's what happens when you care about someone. Just like you're acting like this because you care about your little brother. What I need to know is what's happened to put that look on your face. I don't like seeing you so upset. Is there anything I can do?"

"Caring is… it makes me weak, Gregory. I don't like that. But you've opened the door, and now I can't _not_ care, and I… I just need to check on my brother." Mycroft went to step around him, but Greg grabbed his shoulders and held him in place, looking into his eyes. There was a bit of panic there, mixed with pain and worry and a bit of fear, and Greg could also clearly see that he was upset with himself for feeling this way. His small outburst supported that conclusion, so Greg tugged him to the couch and sat him down, stroking a comforting hand up and down his arm to steady him.

"What happened, Mycroft? Tell me. We can work through it together, but I can't help until you tell me what's happened."

"I had to deliver the news to six families this morning, that their children were never coming home. And then I had to arrange their funerals." The words came slowly at first, almost as if they were being dragged out of him, but then they started coming faster, and he realized he was helpless to stop the flood.

"One of them had dark curly hair, and all I could think was that it could easily have been Sherlock, when he was out there destroying the Spider's network, and that it could still be him, flat on his back on the pavement one of these days staring blankly at the sky with a bullet in his brain because he'll forget his backup, or leave John in the dust in his haste, or simply make himself a target by catching one too many criminals and I just… I care for him, Gregory. Even though I know he resents me for it most of the time, I simply can't stop caring."

"Whoa, baby, calm down." Greg moved closer, tugging Mycroft sideways into his lap. He went willingly, barely noticing the term of endearment that, in any other situation, probably would have made him blush. "Why do you think Sherlock resents you?"

"Because I left him alone. I wasn't there when he needed me, Gregory. I let him down." Bowing his head under the weight of guilt, Mycroft contemplated burying his face in Greg's shoulder and letting him soothe the uncomfortable feelings away. But then it occurred to him that if he was going to make things work with Greg, he was going to need to face things, instead of running from them. _Sodding sentiment…_

"Care to explain that a little better?" He asked gently, and Mycroft sighed. It was the last thing he really wanted to do, but he knew it was important. Caring was difficult, but the fact that he was like this, more than the Iceman he'd been accused of being, was why he was able to curl up safe in Greg's embrace. And that fact alone was enough to compel the truth from him.

"When we were children, we did everything together. I was several years older, of course, but we spent all our free time with each other, because there was no one else around to spend time with us. It was always difficult for both of us to make friends, being so different, and the staff couldn't be bothered to entertain us. Our parents were distant at best, never around very often at all. Sherlock and I figured out around the time he was six that we were born because of duty, not because of any desire for children.

"We basically raised ourselves, or rather, I raised myself and then Sherlock. When I graduated and had to go off to university, however, I had to leave him behind. My parents insisted that Sherlock could not come with me to London, and I… I was suffocating. I shouldn't have left him behind, no matter what, but I needed to get out. I thought that if I could just get control over my own life, graduate uni and be independent from them, I could go back for Sherlock. But by the time I was able to return home, the damage was done. He'd quit responding to my letters months before, but I hadn't thought too much of it until I came home to find him completely withdrawn and strung out."

"So Sherlock started getting high because he was lonely."

"Yes," Mycroft said miserably, giving in to the urge to lay his head against Greg's shoulder, seeking comfort from the strong arms that he was half expecting to push him away at any second out of disgust. Instead they tightened, trying to impart as much comfort as possible.

"It wasn't your fault, baby. Truly."

"I was supposed to be there for him. I was the only one who ever really cared about him, Gregory, and I hurt him just as badly as the rest of them."

"You did nothing wrong, My. You needed to live your own life. Sherlock had to have known you would come back for him as soon as possible. You didn't give up on him, but he gave up on himself. Have you considered that maybe he's been pushing you away all this time because he's ashamed that he lost faith so easily, when you've been there for him time and time again?"

Mycroft was silent, digesting this new theory, but it was impossible for Greg to know for certain if his words had even made a dent for a good ten minutes. He was obviously in his own version of a mind palace, comparing information and trying to see what actually fit, and for a long time, he didn't move, and his breathing even changed, slowing down as if he was asleep. It was only by his eyes that Greg could tell that his mind was racing.

He blinked several times in quick succession, surprise and hope suddenly lighting up those mercurial eyes, and then rose gracefully to his feet.

"I think, perhaps, I should go speak with my brother. Will you still be here when I return?" A soft smile on Mycroft's lips made Greg's heart jump into his throat and he stood up and kissed that mouth gently, happy to have helped.

"I can't make any promises about still being awake, but I will be here for as long as you want me here." Mycroft nodded, a little distracted but still present enough to remember his manners.

"You should probably go to bed, then. I'll probably wake you up coming in when I get back if you're still out here on the couch. Feel free to set the alarm to whatever time you need."

Greg yawned a little, sleepy now that his lover was at ease again.

"Sounds fine by me. And you should wake me up anyway. I enjoy spending what time with you I can, and I don't mind missing out on sleep if it means getting to hold you some more, and maybe make love to you in the shower."

Mycroft bit his lip, looking shy for a moment.

"If you keep talking like that, Gregory, I might not be able to leave after all. Thank you, for making this disaster of a day into something happy. I'll be home soon. Sleep well." One more brief, chaste kiss, simply because he wanted to show Greg how much he meant to him and knew that if he tried with words he'd be tripping over his own tongue for the next several hours, and Mycroft was calling a car and heading down to the street to get in.

On the ride to 221B Baker Street, Mycroft found that he was much calmer than normal when preparing to interact with his brother. Something about Greg's words earlier had resonated with him on a deep level. Had guilt been the primary motivator for the divide between them on both sides? The only way to find out was to have a conversation, and though it should have been terrifying, Mycroft was only feeling relief when he finally left the car, which waited for him as he made his way up the stairs.

He knocked softly, able to hear the quiet strains of music coming from a violin, and sighed when the music played on for a minute more before quitting. Sherlock undoubtedly knew who his visitor was, and had planned to keep him waiting. It was normally annoying, but when they were younger, it had been endearing. He wondered if it would ever be like that again.

"Mycroft." Sherlock looked his brother up and down, a little curious as to what he was doing there at such a late hour. After another minute he realized, thanks to John's teachings, that it was rude to keep someone standing in the doorway. He gestured for his brother to enter, trying to think of the other things John had taught him to do. Normally, he'd have deleted them, but he seemed to have difficulty deleting anything that had to do with the army doctor.

"Would you like a cup of tea?" He inquired, voice low and cautious. Mycroft noticed his quick, almost nervous glance toward the kitchen and had to suppress a chuckle which would undoubtedly be read the wrong way.

"No thank you, brother. I don't wish to put you to any trouble. I simply thought that we might talk."

"Tea's not trouble." The curly haired genius said, brow furrowed ever so slightly. Instead of taking John's chair, which always annoyed Sherlock, the elder Holmes took a seat on the couch, leaving his younger brother even more off balance.

"Yes, well, if you're half as bad at the domestic things as I am, we would undoubtedly have to call John to supervise the heating of the water to make sure it doesn't explode or something." Mycroft quirked a rare genuine smile, and Sherlock surprised him by laughing at the joke, albeit a little reservedly. That was okay. This felt better than it had in years. It was still stilted and felt a little off from how he'd seen other siblings react, but he and Sherlock had never been normal anyway. They'd always had their own way of communicating, and had rarely needed words, when they were both so good at deducing the other.

"You're probably right. I hope that Lestrade is better at that sort of thing than you are? You used to make the most horrid things. I still remember the time you decided that combining eggs with macaroni was a good idea." Sherlock made a face, and Mycroft's mind clicked back to that exact memory.

"Well, I was twelve. They were my favorite foods, so I figured they would be even better together. I can't help it if I didn't know that the eggs needed flipped or that the noodles would need stirred."

"No, I guess we were always more interested in other things." Sherlock paused, confusion flitting across his features. It felt oddly good, talking with his brother instead of slinging insults back and forth, but he didn't quite understand the change. "Why is it you're here, again?"

"I… Wanted to apologize, I suppose." This, Mycroft knew, would be the most difficult part. The next words would make or break the tentative bond reforming between them. "I know I hurt you when I left for uni. I never meant to, Sherlock. There was a rather large part of me that needed to become my own man, but I never intended to leave you at our parents' mercy indefinitely. I had assumed that things would go back to the way they'd been when I came back, but that was a frankly ridiculous thing to assume, and I understand that now."

Sherlock simply stared. His brother, who abhorred sentiment in any form, was _apologizing for hurting him?_ What had the world come to? But rather than be scornful, he took a moment to really study his brother, and saw that Mycroft was completely genuine. This wasn't him attempting to get Sherlock to do something, which was a tactic their parents had often used. Instead, he was simply offering a piece of himself up, obviously well aware that Sherlock could slice into him with another insult. He had left himself emotionally vulnerable, and done something else. For the first time in years, he'd shown his little brother that he actually _cared_. Not about his reputation or his country, but about Sherlock.

"Mycroft…" Carefully, as if this new version of his brother might run for the hills at the slightest provocation, Sherlock came over to sit beside him, much closer than they normally got, and put a tentative hand on his shoulder before pulling back. No, physical displays were still too weird, but maybe eventually… For now, Sherlock decided to focus on words. That was why Mycroft was here, after all.

"I know you needed to get away. Neither of us could live life under their thumbs without going mad. I just… When you left, I lost the only person who'd ever really cared for me as a person, rather than as a means to a paycheck or a duty to a bloodline. I was terrified you were never coming back, and that made me… well, it hurt.

"I hadn't meant to get addicted, only wanted to forget, but under the influence of drugs, I could convince myself that I hated you for abandoning me, that I didn't miss you all the time. It was only when I was sober that I remembered being happy, and it was more than I could stand, not really believing you would come back. Mummy was constantly telling me you never would, that you'd written me off as a freak and decided you were better off without me. By the time you did come back, I was too much of a mess to realize she'd been wrong."

A long period of silence followed the confession that felt almost too big for the room, and then the Holmes brothers looked at one another and exhaled, relieved smiles on both their faces. They didn't hug, or anything so sentimental as that, but they did shake hands before Sherlock wished Mycroft a safe journey home. It hadn't fixed everything, but they were closer than they'd been in years.

As Mycroft crawled into bed with Greg, smiling in amusement and affection at the small snoring noises that occasionally emerged from the cop, he thought about how amazing this seemingly ordinary man was. Somehow, he'd managed to make Mycroft happy, and had opened up a whole new world to him. Because he hadn't woken up, and the politician was also pretty tired after a long day, he decided to just cuddle close and go to sleep. As darkness descended on him, his last thought was that it felt good, to be so cared for. And then he drifted into dreams of a silver haired man, holding his hand in the moonlight.


	8. Roses

Mycroft knew he needed to do something spectacular for Greg to thank him. He'd somehow mended the void between the Holmes brothers all with a few well-chosen words, when it had only been growing for so many years. It had been a truly incredible act, and one that deserved something equally incredible in return. Mycroft had been thinking about it for almost a week when it came to him. And with a slightly devious smile, he began launching his assault.

The first rose was an incredibly pale pink, the lush bloom arriving on the DI's desk just five minutes before he himself showed up for work. Seeing the flower in a too large vase, Greg grinned and chalked it up to Mycroft's typical extravagance, sending him a quick thank-you text. Then, curious, he looked up the meaning of the flower on the internet. Admiration and sweetness. The smile lingered on his face for the next hour, before he was called out for a crime scene.

A courier delivered the next rose as he was stepping out of his car, this one trimmed neatly so he could wear it as a boutonniere. It was orange, which the delivery boy told him stood for fascination before strolling away. Greg chuckled a little before shaking his head and turning his attention back to the body.

When he realized that Anderson was not going to be able to pull anything useful from the scene, he shot a text to Sherlock, who arrived a suspiciously short time later. When he got out of the cab, John trailing along just behind him, he was smiling like a shark. And for once, Greg didn't think it was his joy at murder that had that particular expression on his face.

He was proven right when Sherlock handed him a rose on his way to examine the body, not bothering to talk to him. Anderson looked stunned, and even Donovan looked a little confused, but since they'd seen the last delivery as well, they didn't comment—at least, not within earshot.

Apologetically, John walked up to Greg, nodding down toward the rose in his hand.

"Pink is for grace, appreciation, and perfect happiness, or so said the text Sherlock received earlier. Has this been happening all day? If so, Mycroft must be really, really good at romance."

"He's certainly something." Greg said, giving in to the urge to sniff at the flower just once before resting it gently on the passenger seat of his car. Then he got back to work, on a case that lasted just two hours, once Sherlock discovered two strands of cat hair and a bit of soup on the tips of the victim's hair and started chasing down the perpetrator without so much as a five second warning. When the chase was over, and Lestrade was returning back to his car with the handcuffed suspect, he was surprised to find another rose on the windshield, this one yellow. A note was attached loosely to the stem of this one, with the words "joy" and "friendship" scrawled elegantly. Nothing else was written there, but it was enough.

Back at his office, he added the two new roses to his vase, realizing quickly that the barrage likely wasn't going to stop until it was filled. There was space for a few more flowers left, which only made him curious. He went into the interrogation room, received a confession in the first ten minutes thanks to a few pressure points Sherlock told him about, and emerged to find Donovan shoving another flower at him.

This rose was coral, and Greg quickly retreated back to his office, both to fill out the paperwork and discover its meaning. _Desire_. He blew out a breath, his trousers suddenly uncomfortably tight. He was glad this one had arrived later in the day, because thinking about Mycroft putting such care into all of this, and letting him know, even in such a subtle way, that he was thinking about him even now, was making it hard for him to not simply pack up his things and head to the younger man's flat.

He finished his paperwork just as there was a knock at the door, and he looked up, fully expecting Sherlock and John to come strolling in with their case reports. He was surprised to see Anthea, who didn't look up from her phone as she handed him a rose and, with a small smile, walked right back out. This one was lavender, and Greg remembered reading about it from his last two searches. He swallowed, hard. It could mean enchantment, which was a lovely sentiment in and of itself, but another meaning was love at first sight. He hoped he wasn't reading too much into it as he gently settled it in the vase with the others and carried it all out to his car and drove through the dark London streets.

When he finally arrived in front of his lover's door, he had to pause, trying to calm the emotions swirling through him. After a few moments, he finally felt ready, and knocked.

Almost as soon as his knuckles brushed the door it opened to reveal Mycroft, dressed in a black suit with a red tie, red rose ever so slightly extended toward Greg. His eyes were practically smoldering with desire, and Greg's heart skipped a beat when he realized what that look meant.

He'd looked up red roses too, on a hunch, and had discovered that they meant beauty, courage, respect, and love. And he now knew, without a single doubt, that Mycroft was giving this rose to him with all those meaning attached. A little overcome, Greg barely remembered to set the vase on the table, adding the red rose to it, before crashing his lips against those of his lover, who reciprocated eagerly, as if he'd been waiting all day. And perhaps he had. But at the moment, that didn't matter half as much as the fact that they were here, now, intertwining like ivy before, on a breathy gasp, Mycroft suggested they move to the bedroom.

"What about the food?" Greg asked, a little amused. Mycroft had set up candles and a beautifully romantic supper for them, but at the moment, neither of them were thinking of something so mundane as eating.

"It can be reheated." The politician practically growled the words before setting their lips together again and leading them, backward, to the bedroom. Greg, almost lost to pleasure, barely noticed the two white and three red roses laid on the pillows, but he did see them in time to avoid crushing them. He quickly ran them out to put them in the vase with the others, and returned to the bedroom with stars in his eyes.

"You gave me a dozen roses." It was an incredibly romantic thing to do, and Greg's eyes were shimmering with an overflow of emotion. Never again, Mycroft knew, would he mock someone for sentiment when Greg's was making his heart fill up with so much love and adoration that it was almost painful. Almost.

"Red and white together mean unity." Mycroft remarked almost absently, unable to resist the urge to slide his fingers through Greg's hair, holding him in place for a slow, gentle kiss that expressed everything he had been trying to say. He wasn't ready to say the word out loud, not quite yet, but he knew that time would be coming soon. In a few short weeks, this man had gone from merely being his only friend in the world to being more important to him than almost anything else.

"Like you and me." Greg whispered against his lips, before moving to kiss his neck, hands working slowly to get him out of that incredibly sexy but _very much in the way_ suit of his. It wasn't long before the two of them were tangled up together, sighing and moaning and crying out one another's names as they lost themselves in the moment, the air around them smelling like roses.

After they finished making love in bed, Greg took Mycroft to the shower, where after several minutes of simply holding one another close they decided they were, in fact, ready for round two. As the evidence of their coupling washed down the drain, Mycroft pulled a pair of jeans out of his dresser, not bothering with pants or a shirt because he knew they would go missing again soon enough. Greg copied his actions and they walked out to the kitchen, where the elegant little table was still waiting for them.

"I had thought you might enjoy a bit of romance. I wanted to thank you, Gregory, and express how much you mean to me, and while I am not good with words when it comes to these matters, I… hope you understand."

Greg nodded, reaching across the table to hold Mycroft's hand. As it happened they'd been long enough that the meal—steak, fixed exactly as Greg liked it—did need reheated, and they snogged against a kitchen cabinet while it did so. They reluctantly parted to eat, and quickly ended up cuddled together on the couch, the vase of roses moved to the coffee table so they could admire it.

The cop had volunteered to clean up, and while he'd done so Mycroft had gone and fetched the orange rose, a little crumpled but still beautiful, and settled it beside the others. They both admired the roses for a long moment before Mycroft turned and pressed a tender kiss to Greg's jaw, resting his head on his shoulder.

"I hope your day was not as stressful as usual?" The comment was light, and almost teasing, but Greg heard the silent question in the words, and held his lover a little bit tighter.

"I loved getting the roses, My. I never knew where or when they were going to show up. It's not often that a guy is the one getting wooed, you know? It was incredibly romantic, and incredibly sweet."

Mycroft blushed.

"Sherlock warned me that I sometimes tend to be… overbearing, when I care about someone. I tried to keep my efforts within the realm of what a normal man might do for his lover, though I was afraid that it might be a little over the top for you."

Greg just blinked at him for a moment.

"Seriously? This was the most romantic thing that anyone has ever done for me, Mycroft. Maybe I'm not a woman, but I can appreciate this sort of thing just as much as the next person. I might have been the one doing this sort of thing in past relationships, but that's only because I never dated anyone who thought to reciprocate. The fact that you would do this for me… don't ever stop being who you are, baby. From where I'm sitting, you're the most amazing person I've ever had the good fortune to hold. You needn't worry that I'm going to get upset or think you're too sweet or something."

"I read somewhere that people often accept only that love which they think that they deserve, or something to that affect. I know your ex-wife treated you badly, and I… wish to be better."

"Trust, me, baby, you already are a thousand times better. She would never even have thought that I might want wooed a little bit, and honestly, she wasn't the kind of person who would have been capable of giving back. I'm pretty sure we weren't married six months before she started cheating on me, truth be told. And it reached a point where I didn't want romantic gestures from her; I just wanted out. It's not like that with you. I'm happy that you want to claim me as yours and do things like that for me. You have no idea how incredible you make me feel."

"I want you to feel as cherished as I do, every time you look at me." Mycroft's words were dragged from the deepest heart of him, and Greg gave him a gentle kiss, thumb feathering across his cheekbone in that way he seemed to love.

"Trust me, Mycroft, you make me feel like I could fly. Not that I'm going to try it, mind, but when I'm with you, I feel like… I'm meant to hold you. Maybe that sounds crazy, but a part of me wonders if I wasn't always meant to find my way here to you. We fit so well together, even when you make me mad, and the fact that you work so hard to pull down your walls for me makes me the luckiest man in the whole world."

"I think we shall have to agree to disagree on that point, Gregory." Mycroft said, a sweet smile on his face.

"And why's that?"

"Because I happen to think that I am the luckiest man in the world. Now, I say we take the roses into the bedroom and retire for the night."

Greg grinned, sweeping Mycroft up into his arms. The younger man grabbed the vase on their way past, and sat it on the nightstand before his lover lowered him to the bed to express, yet again, how happy those roses, and all the meanings behind them, had made him.


	9. Love

**Before I begin, I'd just like to say how grateful I am to all of you who've followed, liked, or read this little story of mine, which has grown beyond what I'd first imagined it would be. I can't say how much it means to me to have your support, and I'd like to offer a special shout out to jaimi-or-jaemi, who in addition to giving me such lovely reviews has also become a good friend. Thanks for the lovely conversation!**

**Now, this chapter's a bit longer, because it was originally supposed to be two chapters. I was going to do a separate chapter for "Baby" and for "Love," but then Greg just kind of took off on me and did what he wanted, and I can't say I'm sorry for that when it turned out so well (I think, anyway). Now I'm done with the boring stuff, so enjoy the story!**

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Mycroft's heart thumped uncomfortably in his chest as he watched his lover sleep, creating a file on the details so that anytime he wondered if he was dreaming, to think that this impossibly beautiful man could be his, he could return to these moments and relive them. It would offer him some form of reassurance, he hoped. Because even now, over a month into their relationship and a couple of years into the friendship, there was a part of Mycroft that barely believed that even Greg, with his extraordinarily long fuse, could put up with him and care about him the way he did.

Love. There was a word for this affliction of his, one that he knew others would voice in a heartbeat just to keep Gregory by their sides. But it wasn't so easy for him, when he'd sworn off love and all the things that came with it before Greg had come into his life, slotting in perfectly like the puzzle piece he'd never known he was missing, but would never feel whole without.

Greg complimented him in every way. That was even obvious to Sherlock, who'd sent him a text a couple of days ago that, though he'd seemed a bit puzzled by the idea of it, had wished Mycroft and Greg every happiness. While the elder Holmes had no doubt that the text had been prompted by John Watson, it had been good to see that it had still been in Sherlock's own words, which meant he had, in fact, at least put in the effort to write it.

So what did it mean, when Greg was fixing problems Mycroft hadn't even known could be fixed, and was doing it all without conscious effort? To the politician, it was clear that it meant he couldn't ever let him go. Not only had he made formerly unpleasant aspects of Mycroft's life fun, but he himself was a burst of sunlight in an otherwise rainy world, and if there was one thing he never planned to do, it was let him slip away.

A declaration of love was, in these cases, almost always warranted. Unless there was some preexisting reason why he was _not_ able to say the words, society would always mandate that the declaration be made. For most of them, however, there were no formerly impenetrable walls of ice to think about, and there was certainly no possibility that wherever it might lead wouldn't set the entire government (meaning Mycroft and his underlings) on ear, depending on how it was received.

There was still a chance that Greg wouldn't feel the same way. He certainly cared about Mycroft, and was willing to spend time with him, but love? Love was a chemical defect found on the losing side, he'd always held. Did that mean that he was losing something by admitting it out loud? Or was he possibly gaining more than he'd ever known he could have, if by some miracle the words were returned?

The thoughts were riddles in his head, and after the Moriarty debacle, the last thing Mycroft wanted was another riddle to try and figure out. He had been doing fine, absolutely-fine-thank-you-very-much, until Greg had calmly strolled in, destroyed the detached Iceman, and essentially given him an ultimatum—run and hide, or take a chance.

Well, he'd taken that chance, hadn't he? And what they had was good. There was no need to ruin it over a silly thing like three little words that may or may not even mean anything to Greg. After one divorce, he probably didn't want anything too serious to come out of their relationship. They were friends and lovers, yes, but they hadn't categorized it beyond that point. There was an unspoken promise of fidelity, true enough, but that didn't mean Greg would even want the words…

Realizing he was getting worked up, Mycroft forced himself to breathe deeply, in through his nose and out through his mouth, a technique he'd learned when he was younger and afraid of his world spinning out of control. The last thing he'd ever wanted to do was give Sherlock a reason to be afraid, so he'd learned to be strong for him. Somewhere along the way, that had turned into a desperation to never give anyone a chance to surprise him or back him into a corner, and yet, he felt cornered. Not even by Greg, but by the feelings the man inspired in him.

If it were Sherlock going through this, he would undoubtedly have found it amusing. It was somehow not funny, however, to be the one suffering through a plethora of doubts and fears all hanging on eight small letters. How hard could they be to say? Ordinary people did it every day, after all, and Mycroft was far from ordinary.

Still, as he gently kissed Greg's stubbly cheek before slipping out of bed, into a suit, and then into the back of a long black car, he found himself wishing that he didn't have work so he could stay in bed all day, listen to the rhythmic breathing of his lover, the sound the only thing that had been able to soothe him into more than four hours of sleep at a time since he'd been a boy.

The thoughts continued to swirl through his head as he went about his day, though he didn't let it impact his work. Even Anthea couldn't see his turmoil, because his mask was still perfect. That shocked him. He would have thought that the realization that he might not only be capable of love, but might be experiencing it, would have cracked his façade completely. Somehow, though, it was every bit as strong as it was supposed to be, and that felt strange.

Greg saw through the mask, so Mycroft had been a little afraid, at first, that everyone would. He'd ended up finding out, however, that it was a superpower of sorts that the older man possessed that no one else, even Sherlock, was able to replicate. No one else could see softness in his eyes when he was like this, but Gregory, his Gregory, saw a world of emotion where most people saw only blank ice.

It was an incredible gift he'd been given, he knew, but it wasn't one he'd ever hoped for. How did he repay his cop's affection and devotion, what could possibly equal the quiet faith he placed in him every time he walked through the door? Greg seemed completely calm about their relationship, as though it wasn't completely bizarre, but Mycroft knew, all too well, how hard it was to offer anyone that much trust, especially after having had his heart broken by his ex-wife. Mycroft wasn't sure he would ever be worthy.

As he signed a treaty with a nation's leader whose name would be redacted for the official reports, Mycroft settled back in his chair. He'd arranged for supper with Greg that night, if both of them managed to get free of work in good time, and it was looking like the world would keep spinning for another night.

After a satisfying twelve hour day, Mycroft put his suit jacket back on and nodded to Anthea, who nodded back without ever having seen the gesture, or so most people would have thought. The car took him to a restaurant, and the maître d led him to the top floor, which had been booked. Only the best, Mycroft thought with a small smirk, for the British Government and his lover.

The world didn't actually know that he and the DI were sleeping together, of course. That would be dangerous, because it would make Greg a target, and the last thing he would ever allow was for that to happen. Instead, they would "meet to discuss Sherlock" and the meetings would last. Because it seemed like a natural extension of the relationship they'd had for years, no one had thought twice about it. That was to their advantage.

Love, which normally wouldn't change much of anything in other people's relationships, would change everything in theirs. Mycroft knew he could be controlling, but it was almost always by necessity. If he and Greg moved forward in their relationship, he would need to be protected, which meant security. Honestly, it would be better if Greg lived with him, so there was little chance of his flat being broken into, but he figured that was a conversation for another day, even if by some miracle Greg _did_ love him.

For now, he had to half force a smile when the silver fox strolled in, hands in his pockets, amusement written on his face. It wasn't their first time out like this, but Greg always seemed to find it amusing that Mycroft would virtually close a place down if he stopped in for something as simple as a fifteen minute dessert date. His smile shone in his eyes, and Mycroft wondered what it would be like, to be that open and unguarded with the entire world. It would drive him crazy, to think that just anyone could read him by a glance, but Greg didn't seem to mind. For a cop he placed a surprising amount of trust in people.

He should have been jaded, but instead, he was an optimist. He should have been wary of relationships, but instead, he was in one with a huge flight risk. There were many things that Greg did that wouldn't be considered logical, but that was part of his appeal. Much like Sherlock could never quite figure John out, Mycroft found Greg to be an enigma in a world that had very little mystery left. Was it any wonder he was in love?

Trying to wipe that still slightly uncomfortable thought from his mind before Greg caught on to the fact that he wasn't his usual composed self, Mycroft rose to his feet, moving easily into Greg's embrace. The man truly did give the most perfect hugs, and Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed, relaxing for the first time all day. Perhaps he was just overthinking things. Maybe there was nothing to worry about. It wasn't like he had to say the words, after all.

But that was a cop-out, and he knew it. Mycroft Holmes was many things, but he was not a coward. He had always prided himself on facing his problems, and wouldn't turn tail and run just because this was difficult for him. No, he needed to deal with this, he told himself as Greg kissed him, the gesture brief but sweet.

"How was work, baby?"

_There _was something he could comment on, Mycroft thought, something that would allow him to deflect the temptation to be completely vulnerable.

"Why do you call me that, anyway?" The question wasn't harsh, simply contemplative. Greg, understanding that it wasn't a criticism, shrugged, looking a bit lost in thought.

"I don't know, exactly. I'm pretty sure it started that night you were having your freak out about your brother, and you ended up over there at a mildly indecent hour of the morning. You looked so terrified, and I just wanted to soothe you. It seemed to fit, somehow."

"You think of me as an infant?" The confusion on Mycroft's face made Greg laugh, and he nudged his thigh gently with his foot under the table, shaking his head and pausing as a waitress came, poured wine for them, and took their orders. Once she was gone, back down the stairs to deliver their order to the kitchen, Greg answered.

"No. I think of you as an adult, trust me." He delivered the words with a saucy wink, but then his expression turned contemplative again. "I think it was mostly that you were vulnerable. I can't ever see calling you honey or sweetheart or anything like that, because they're a bit too saccharine to suit you, but… I can't really explain it, but there's this side of you that you only ever show to me, and… well, it's kind of silly, but have you ever seen Dirty Dancing?"

Mycroft shook his head, frowning. Unlike his brother, he made a point of keeping up with pop culture references, but that one must either have been a little out of date or too new to have crossed his desk yet.

"No? I'll maybe have to bring it over sometime, if I can find my copy. Anyway, it's about this girl from a rich family who ends up falling in love with this dancer at the country club. She's wanted to change the world, and make it a better place, and even though she was so far socially above the man she was in love with, she didn't care, because he was the one person she could really confide in, and he was the only one in the world who actually let her be herself. Her name was Frances, but everyone always called her Baby."

"Oh." A little at a loss for words at the startlingly sentimental reason behind the nickname, he realized he did recognize the reference. Somewhere in Greg's brief synopsis, it had come back to him. Anthea was a fan of the movie, he believed. Once, when they'd been under cover, she'd worn a tee-shirt with the words "Nobody puts Baby in a corner" on the front. It had been a bit tacky, but they'd been pretending to be American tourists, so it had been perfect. He smiled a little, both at the memory and at the fact that the parallels Greg had drawn had been so lovely.

"I vaguely remember now." Mycroft said thoughtfully, remembering that the male lead in that film had been rather handsome. The woman, however, had had a slightly large nose. Did that mean that Greg thought his nose was too large? _Definitely overthinking it_, he scolded himself mentally, trying to focus on the positive aspects.

"Vaguely? Don't you have all your thoughts organized in a mind palace like Sherlock's?" Greg was smiling, enjoying teasing him, but there was another pause as their food was delivered. Then Mycroft shook his head, blushing ever so slightly. Greg was, of course, intrigued.

"It's more of a… mind office, I suppose would be the term. It has the appearance of my office at the Diogenes Club, but instead of books lining the walls, there are files. And there are no windows or doors. It's just a room full of information. Sherlock has to ramble through his, remember the exact location of things, because he went too grand, as is to be expected from him. I, on the other hand, have things alphabetized and cross-referenced, as well as confined to one neat little area for quicker access."  
Greg blinked, then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly. Mycroft half expected the older man to call him a freak, as had the last person he'd explained that to, but instead, he asked a question.

"So does that mean you're actually smarter than Sherlock? I've always suspected so, but never had any proof. You don't show off like he does. You're every bit as secretive as he is obnoxious about thoughts and feelings and things." Mycroft bit his lip, not quite sure how to respond.

"I… I suppose that, by the common measure of such things, I would be considered in a class of my own, somewhere above Sherlock. But intelligence is hard to quantify, Gregory, and there are ways in which Sherlock is brighter than I am. He realized long before I did, for example, that even the brightest mind needs a conductor of light to shine at its brightest. Companionship was never something I even considered, until I saw how well it worked out for him. He and John have a strange friendship, which will undoubtedly evolve into more in time, but he is… better at it, than I am."

"Are you kidding? He pisses John off all the time. You've only truly made me angry a handful of times."

"John has a much shorter fuse, and the main reason they fight is the sexual frustration neither of them acknowledge, or at least, do anything about. I don't actually read minds, but I have a feeling that Sherlock is aware of what he is missing, at least. The only question is whether or not he will enlighten John, and that remains to be seen. It is not something in which I will meddle."

"So you think they really just fight because they want to fuck?" Mycroft made a face at Greg's language, but he'd grown too used to it to comment. It was one of the older man's quirks, but truth be told, though Mycroft felt that bad language was the refuge of a weak mind, Greg's was refreshingly honest, and was a breath of fresh air compared to the stiffness of the politicians he was surrounded by on a daily basis, who wouldn't admit their real feelings even if they were threatened at gunpoint. Greg held nothing back, and that was oddly admirable to him. That he could be so blunt, when Mycroft was not, was just another reason to love him.

Once again, that word sprang unbidden to his mind, and Mycroft realized it wasn't planning on leaving him alone. One way or the other, he was going to end up saying it. His mouth might very well betray him if he tried to hold it back, so he decided to at least come up with a more elegant way to say it than simply blurting it out. He knew Greg didn't care about pageantry, but he believed that if he was going to say "I love you" for the first time in his life, that it should be an impressive effort.

Sending Anthea a discreet text when Greg smiled and conversed with the waitress, sending his compliments to the chef about the fantastic meal and earning a smile in return, Mycroft rose to his feet and grabbed his umbrella, nodding to the waitress with a small smile, which earned a surprised but pleased smile in return. Anyone who could make Greg smile earned a bit of his gratitude—unless she'd been flirting, in which case she'd have been relocated somewhere cold and unpleasant.

Fortunately, the waitress was happily married with three kids, and was simply a very friendly woman. She got to keep her position, and Mycroft included an extremely generous tip for her with his payment. They left the restaurant to find a slight drizzle coming down from the London skies, a bit cold, and Mycroft shielded them with his umbrella as they made the short walk to the car.

The ride back to the flat was fairly quiet, and though they held hands, both were someplace else mentally, and it was only when they were cuddled up on the couch, admiring the new batch of red roses and watching the DVD of Dirty Dancing Anthea had dropped by, that Mycroft realized his lover was abnormally quiet. Normally, Greg was the one directing the conversation, but he hadn't said a word in over an hour.

Icy fear gripping his heart again, Mycroft forced his voice to stay even as he spoke. It was, he hoped, nothing but the result of a long day.

"Gregory? Is everything okay?"

"Hmm?" Greg jolted guiltily out of his thoughts, and Mycroft repeated the question, growing even more worried, though his face showed it only in a slight tightening at the corners of his mouth. Even that, Greg knew, was a concession just for him.

"I guess I was just thinking… where do you think this relationship is going?" Greg didn't sound unhappy, but that didn't soothe Mycroft's nerves any at all. He didn't often watch daytime television, but he'd seen enough of it to know where this was going. Those words were usually offered by some form of proposal, which didn't seem likely considering they'd only officially been together for about a month and Greg wasn't a hasty man, or a breakup.

"I haven't any clue what you're trying to say, Gregory. Perhaps you could be a bit clearer?" The words were tense, and Mycroft had moved a subtle distance away, jaw locked. He was also, Greg noticed, looking everywhere but at him, which spoke volumes. Mycroft wasn't just nervous, he was a little bit scared, and was fighting himself, trying to figure out whether or not he should show it. It was a risk, but on the other hand, not doing so had pushed Greg away before.

"I'm just wondering… I know you care about me Mycroft, but I guess what I'm asking is… how much?"

Mycroft's mouth went completely dry. Greg rushed on, oblivious to the chalky paleness of his lover's face because he, too, was having a hard time looking at the other man.

"I just mean that I care about you quite a lot, and I'm pretty sure that I love you, and I know how you feel about love and all that, and I really don't want to push you away or put pressure on you or anything, but I feel like you should know, because even though it would absolutely kill me if you walked away from me because I am in love with you, you should have the option, because you weren't all that fond of the idea of any kind of intimacy before, and you got over that for me, so I hope that maybe in time, you'll change your opinion about love as well, or at least be okay with me telling you that I love you, because I'm not good at holding my feelings back, and I think it would kill me to not be able to say it, because I've been wanting to for a couple of weeks now, and it's getting harder to keep it inside when I want to scream from the rooftops that I'm in love with you."

Mycroft's jaw actually dropped. The extremely long sentence Greg had just spewed out, in addition to actually technically being grammatically correct, had voiced a thousand fears, and one solitary truth that burned bright in Mycroft's mind. Gregory _loved him_. Gregory _was in love with him._ It felt like a miracle, and the politician was wondering if this man would ever stop offering him the most incredible gifts.

"Mycroft? Baby, say something. Please." Snapped out of his thoughts by the worry in Greg's voice, Mycroft's eyes moved of their own accord to meet his, brown and blue clashing and crashing into one another with all the intensity of a storm. Greg looked frightened, and Mycroft realized it had been five minutes, thirty seven seconds since his abrupt declaration, and Mycroft _hadn't told him he loved him back_.

"I love you as well, Gregory." The words didn't come out easily, like Greg's, but they were no less genuine. Even after hearing the older man say them first didn't mean they passed easily from Mycroft's lips, but the effort was worth it, to see the worry and pain in Greg's eyes melt into relief and love that burned so bright, it was a wonder he hadn't detected it sooner. He wasn't normally that oblivious. His only excuse was that he'd been focusing on his own feelings so intently he'd missed Greg's, somehow.

"Oh, thank God. I was starting to worry you were going to run away. Look, Mycroft, you don't actually have to say the words back, but I just… as long as you don't want to toss me out or anything, we're good. I don't mind it if you never say it back, really. I'm just relieved you don't hate me for loving you." Realizing Greg had read his hesitance for placation, but was so relieved at not being kicked out that he wasn't hurting at the moment, Mycroft shook his head, fighting himself for a moment before he managed to fight down decades of conditioning and take his partner's hands in his.

"I am not saying the words back because you've said them, Gregory. I'm saying them because I've been agonizing over them for days, and because you are the only person I have ever even been capable of loving like this, and because it terrifies me that you have my heart when I never planned to give it, and that you could do the logical thing and walk away at any moment and leave me here alone, when I know that you are the only one I could ever feel this way for. There are so many people out there who would kill to have someone like you, and it constantly amazes me that you choose to stay. I am so in love with you, and I hate that it's so hard to say, because no words I have ever spoken have been truer."

Greg sat in stunned silence after Mycroft spoke. The politician's breathing was unsteady, a sure sign that he was worked up, and his eyes were strange and a little unfocused, almost as if he had been hit upside the head or something. And that might well have been how he was feeling; if this was really the first time he'd ever felt this way, he would undoubtedly be overwhelmed, like a teenager falling in love for the first time.

Fortunately for both of them, Greg had been here before, and it wasn't unfamiliar territory to him, though it was the first time he'd ever meant the words so intensely. Smiling, he gathered Mycroft close, peppering kisses all over his face until he pulled out of whatever distant place his mind had travelled to and pressed their lips together, desperation lending the gesture a deeper meaning than usual. Mycroft was seeking reassurance, and Greg would be a very bad lover indeed if he did not offer it.

Several long, drugging kisses found them in the bedroom, where Greg slowly stripped them down and laid Mycroft out on the bed, worshipping him with his hands and mouth until Mycroft was gasping, sobbing, begging for release. It was only then that Greg began to move inside him, their hands clasped on either side of Mycroft's head on the pillow, cementing the connection between them. Their eyes remained wide open and locked on one another's even as they both hit orgasm, coming together, harsh exhalations of each other's names expressing the same message, over and over.

Each brush of lips or fingers against skin, each murmur or sigh or moan, each shiver or squirm, repeated the words silently but definitively. _I love you_. The same refrain echoed in both their heads with each errant caress, and they lay curled together in the aftermath of lovemaking so intense it had brought tears to both their eyes with the words on their lips, exchanged back and forth with each small kiss, filling the silence every few seconds because they couldn't seem to stop, now that the words were out, from repeating them again and again.

It was hours before they both came down enough to fall silent, but it wasn't for lack of love. They both felt as if the room was filled up with it, and they fell asleep together, cradled in love's embrace, with small smiles on both their faces. Confession had never felt so right.


	10. Text

**I know this one is basically just filler, but I felt it was necessary to establish that Mycroft's job is an obstacle for them, but one they overcome, not one that I ignore because it's inconvenient. I'll be going straight back to actual plot in the next chapter, but I wanted to give Greg a chance to be clever and wanted to show how they can flirt without flirting, thereby making the relationship work without putting either of them in unnecessary danger. I know it's short, and I'm sorry if you're disappointed, but I do hope you enjoy this!**

* * *

Greg loved the sound of Mycroft's voice. He could easily listen to it all day without ever getting bored, and that was saying something. For a man who always liked to be doing something, and rarely embraced the idea of downtime, it was surprisingly easy for Greg to fall into bed with Mycroft at the end of the day and do nothing but cuddle for hours at a time. The sex was beyond brilliant, but the moments when he simply got to hold his lover and listen to him complain about how moronic some people were was easily on his list of top five favorite things to do.

Sometimes, however, Mycroft couldn't be at the flat, or even in London at all. This was the trip of real length that he'd taken during the course of their relationship, and wherever he was, there was very poor cell service. Normally, both men preferred phone calls, both because they could hear one another speak and because they were both old fashioned enough to feel that texting was more impersonal, but they'd only managed conversations of a minute or two before the call would cut out, and Mycroft usually couldn't get service again for an hour or more afterward, leaving Greg worried and waiting by the phone.

To solve this, the cop had decided that no matter how hard it was not to hear Mycroft's voice, it was better for his peace of mind to simply text. So he began, sending a short, to the point text that only Mycroft would understand.

_Nobody puts Baby in a corner -GL_

To anyone else, it was just a movie quote. To both Mycroft and Greg, it was a reminder of the night they'd first declared their love for each other, and he knew the younger man would get the message instantly. They were careful, always, to not use the words when they could be overheard, and Greg didn't want to risk texting the word love in any context on the off chance that someone else ended up with his phone. Maybe they were overly careful, but with Mycroft's line of work, if you weren't overly careful, your sloppiness could cost you more than your job.

It was nearly two hours before he received a return text, time he'd filled by working on old reports. He'd just been called to a murder scene, and was about to fire off a message to Sherlock when his phone buzzed in his hand. He smiled when he read the name on the screen, and smiled even wider when he read the text, even as he scrambled to follow its direction.

_Check your left desk drawer –MH_

Greg wasn't sure how, even so many miles away, Mycroft knew exactly where he was, but the man always seemed to know, even when there was no possible way he had surveillance on him, or rather, no possible way he had current access to that surveillance. However he did it, Greg found a neatly folded note on some sort of thick, creamy cardstock sitting on top of the brick a brack that was scattered in the bottom of the rarely used drawer. Without being pointed to it, Greg could have been oblivious to its presence for weeks.

"I love you," the elegant script read, and even though there was no signature on the card, the cop felt a rush of warmth flood him. For someone who'd never fallen in love or attempted romance before, Mycroft was incredible at it, and it was just another reason that Greg was hopelessly head over heels. He grinned, fingers flying over the keys in reply.

_I never know quite what to expect from you- GL_

The DI had been on the scene for approximately four hours before another text signal dinged on his phone, and he hastily turned his laugh into a cough, lest people start accusing him of giggling at crime scenes like John and Sherlock so often did.

_I could say the same of you. I was surprised to find something in my jacket pocket this morning- MH_

Greg had, in a moment of mischievousness, given Anthea a bag of chocolates to occasionally hide randomly for Mycroft to find. If the PA was still able to play like that, Mycroft was obviously in good hands, even if he was in the middle of nowhere. Greg quite liked Anthea—she was wonderful at her job, and took good care of Mycroft when he wasn't around to do it—and was glad she'd agreed to help him. It wouldn't do, he felt, for Mycroft to be the only one romancing his lover.

The chocolates were, in addition to being a sweet luxury for Mycroft who was always on a diet despite being in good shape, expressions of affection in their own right. An American invention, the little treats were called "Kisses," and the meaning was impossible to miss for Mycroft, while someone else might simply think that he favored the chocolates, and knew how unlikely it was that he would come across them anywhere but in America.

Not being stupid, Greg had worked for a solid week on coming up with a way to express his affection, so Mycroft could feel his love no matter where he was in the world, without being obvious about it. Finally he'd settled on the "Kisses," a gesture Anthea had not only agreed and assisted with but applauded, and Mycroft had, from that point on, been finding them everywhere, whether he was in London or far away.

_What can I say? I'm every bit as much of a ninja as you seem to be. And what's life without a little surprise every now and then?- GL_

Mycroft smiled at his phone as the small chocolate melted on his tongue. He and his PA were the only people in the room at the moment, because the other officials had decided they needed a break. The time stamp showed that Greg's text had come through seventy four minutes ago, and while the politician was sorry about his sporadic texting, when it took Greg very little time to get back to him, it simply couldn't be helped. He would make it up to him, when he was back in London. For now, he would have to content himself with the little notes he'd left lying around for Greg to find. It had been a response to the suddenly omnipresent "kisses" he suspected Anthea of helping his lover to give him.

Only she, after all, would think to hide one in the boot of his car, knowing that when he opened it to transport a prisoner whose existence the British Government would neither confirm nor deny, he would spot it there. Greg wasn't aware of half the things he got up to, and it would have to stay that way. Still, the gesture wasn't lost on Mycroft, who understood it was reciprocation for the roses, and all the other little things.

_I have never claimed to be a ninja, though I suppose I do often dress in black. And you're quite right; it is nice to be kept on my toes occasionally- MH_

Sighing at the sound of footsteps outside, Mycroft slid his phone away, while across the miles, Greg pulled his out, chuckling quietly since he was now at his own flat, the television on low for background noise as he sipped at a beer. He'd invited John to the pub, but he and Sherlock were apparently chasing down a lead on their first private case since Sherlock's return, so he had opted for a night in, alone, with only the occasional text for company. And that was okay. It felt good to have some downtime after a long day, and though he would have preferred Mycroft's flat, where the pillows smelled like him, he'd practically lived over there whenever Mycroft was in London. If he was going to keep his own flat, he should occasionally use it.

_Black suits you—and yes, that was supposed to be a very bad pun. Any idea when you'll be back in London?- GL_

Greg turned his attention to the simple meal of pasta and vegetables he'd made for himself and an old black and white movie on the telly, wondering what time it was where Mycroft was. He hoped the younger man was sleeping. He usually came home even from short trips looking exhausted, and Greg usually had to threaten not to have sex with him to get him to rest. Anthea protected his life and was an excellent PA, but she didn't consider it her purview to, as she called it, "mother him." She wouldn't think to make sure he ate or slept enough.

Trying to quell his worries, the cop turned the volume up, determined to try and enjoy the movie. Normally, he loved crap telly, but he wasn't getting into it tonight, apparently. He had nearly dozed off when his phone went off, startling him into a sitting position. It was, he knew, for the best. His back would be off for the next week if he slept on his lumpy, generally uncomfortable couch. He didn't even know why he kept the old thing, except that it was the first thing he'd bought for himself after the divorce, and was stubbornly proud of it.

_You succeeded admirably. I may have cringed. Officially, I've no idea when I shall be back. Unofficially… a few days, I think- MH_

Smiling, because Mycroft was rarely wrong, Greg made his way to his room, sending off one last text.

_Wonderful, and wonderful. Sherlock's been a very busy boy these past few days; we have a lot to talk about- GL_

The observation about Sherlock and the comment about talking were separate, but that wouldn't be obvious to anyone reading their texts. It was his way of inviting Mycroft on a date when he returned, as well as telling him he missed him, though the last part wasn't quite as obvious. With that, he decided to turn in for the night, fully prepared for another long, boring, Mycroft-less day when morning came, always too early. He plugged his phone in, changed into lounge pants, and climbed into bed, though it took him a long time to drift off, even with his phone clasped in his hand, fully prepared to wake up when the next text came through.

Some things were worth losing sleep over, and a chance to communicate with Mycroft, even if he couldn't hear his voice, was one of those things. If text were all they could share for the next few days, he wouldn't miss a single one.

Mycroft, in an undisclosed location, smiled softly at his phone. He was in a hotel room, alone, and had already done his own sweep for recording devices, after his team, and then Anthea, had had their turns. Since he hadn't found any, he allowed himself a moment of vulnerability, to let his thoughts wander to the moment when he would be reunited with Gregory. Texts were inefficient, but communication with Greg was always a treat, no matter the medium. He closed his phone, closed his eyes, and drifted to sleep for a couple of hours, phone clutched in his hand on the off chance that he might receive a "good morning" text in a few hours, when dawn shone golden over London and lit up Greg's face.


	11. Home

**We are now back to plot, and I think it'll be that way for the next couple of chapters, but don't quote me on that. I do not give you smut, but I do pour on the feels, and give you a bit more insight into the pasts of my versions of the characters for the purposes of the story. If you pay attention, you might get a small clue as to the next chapter. I hope you enjoy!**

* * *

Mycroft had been home for exactly two minutes, eleven seconds before Greg was walking through the door and pulling him into his arms. It was, Mycroft thought, two minutes, eleven seconds too long, but he was willing to forget that as Greg held him for a long moment, not kissing or touching but simply _holding_, because he was real, alive, and most importantly, home.

"I'm glad you're back." Greg murmured low in his ear, and Mycroft smiled softly, reaching up to tangle his fingers in silver hair just because he could. It was a relief, after so long being away, to find himself in Greg's arms held like he was something precious. The fact that Greg cared this much, and had waited for him to come home not for a booty call but to spend time with him, was a small miracle, one of the many his lover had gifted him.

"I'm glad to be back. I love you, Gregory." The words still didn't come easy, but they weren't half as hard to say as they'd once been. Greg found himself smiling, happy that Mycroft had been the one to say it first. He still had troubles initiating it, and more often than not Greg was the one to say it first, but Mycroft had obviously missed him quite a lot, judging by the way he still hadn't let him go.

"And I, you, Mycroft." Greg finally pulled back, giving Mycroft a chaste, sweet kiss. Reluctantly the two parted, hands slipping down to hold each other's as they looked in each other's eyes. Greg felt another rush of relief, that Mycroft was finally home, not in danger in some unknown place where he couldn't get to him. That was the worst part of his job by far. It wasn't the hours, or the two in the morning phone calls, or the fact that he always had to reconstruct his mask before leaving in the mornings. It was the way it seemed to take him so often away from his home.

"So you said something about dinner, in one of your texts?" Greg nodded, biting his lip.

"Did you want to go out? I know this really great Chinese place a couple of streets over, or if you're interested in Italian, John's been pestering me for weeks to try Angelo's. Apparently the man is a fan of you and Sherlock?"

Mycroft blushed a little at that, because it was true. While Sherlock had been the one to find the evidence that had kept the man from being put away, Mycroft had pulled as many strings as he'd been able to in order to keep him from the rougher parts of prison life, and pay his bail, while Sherlock had built his case, all because he believed in his brother. His part in the fiasco had been a bit smaller, but Angelo was always nearly as excited to see him as he was to see his brother.

"Actually, would you mind if we stayed here? I've rather missed being home." Mycroft's voice was just a little wistful, and while before he might have struggled to admit that much sentiment, it now came easily in front of Greg. He was the only man in the world, Mycroft thought with a small smile, who could put him so at ease just by his presence alone.

"Sure. I actually thought you might say that, so I took the liberty of purchasing a few things the other day. How about I cook for us?"

"Well, I suppose you did say that you would do so one day, and as I really would prefer to stay in, that sounds perfect. I'm sure you're much better in the kitchen than I am." Shrugging, Mycroft took a seat at the breakfast bar, prepared to watch and learn from Greg.

"So you really never had anyone teach you how to do this sort of thing?" The cop asked, making conversation as he opened one of the upper cupboards and brought out a long, slim box. He set it on the counter before reaching into the cupboard beside the stove and pulling out a huge pan Mycroft hadn't even known he owned.

"No. We had a nanny until I turned twelve, when our parents determined that I should be able to take care of both Sherlock and myself. There was a cleaning lady, but she was a ghastly woman, and always seemed to think that children should be seen and not heard. I had quite the job keeping her from coming after Sherlock with a broom whenever he blew something up or melted something down, and that was aside from keeping up with my schoolwork and making sure Sherlock did his in between experiments. I didn't really have the time to learn properly, and even if I had, there wouldn't have been anyone around who could teach me. I can guarantee my mother never so much as fried an egg in her life."

"That's just sad. Everyone should know how to take care of themselves." Greg spoke absently, but he did notice when Mycroft winced a bit. "Of course, you can't really do that unless someone takes the time to teach you, so you'd best get in here for a closer look." Curious now instead of ashamed, the younger man slid gracefully from his stool and walked around the bar into the kitchen, where he watched Greg haul the large pot over to the sink and begin to fill it with water.

"If you're going to make spaghetti, the first thing you have to do is boil the water. It's pretty important, if you want your noodles to be cooked correctly." Mycroft, who remembered this much at least, nodded. He'd usually seen the beginning of the process when he was little—it was the middle and end that had eluded him, because it usually took Sherlock less than five minutes alone before he was getting up to some sort of mischief that needed sorted out by his big brother.

"You don't want so much water that it's going to take all day, mind, but there's no exact measurement. Just make sure you have enough to cover the noodles while at boiling. Then you set it on the stove, flick the burner on, and make out with your lover while the water heats."

Mycroft nodded for a few seconds before freezing, eyes darting up to Greg's. His sparkling brown eyes were filled with amusement, and Mycroft found himself smiling as the older man gently pushed him up against a counter and put their lips together for a long, languid kiss. It was a prelude to so much more than dinner, and Mycroft wondered if he mightn't convince him to skip the meal entirely for something much more fun for both of them.

That thought had barely crossed his mind when his stomach made a noise, and he broke away to frown down at it while Greg laughed a little, wondering when the last time he'd actually eaten was. Last night on the plane? The day before that? It was a little hard to remember, and that suggested that his body did need the fuel more than it needed Gregory. He thought Greg should always inch every other need out no matter how dire, but it would seem his lover disagreed, because he stepped back with a smile lingering on his face and in his eyes. It was hard to be upset when Greg seemed so pleased by his very human reaction to hunger.

"Why do you find it amusing when my body betrays me?" Mycroft asked a little sulkily, earning a glance that made his toes curl while Greg walked over to check the water. He hummed, satisfied, and poured the noodles in.

"Because the last time your body betrayed you we ended up having a very interesting shower as a result." Greg was grinning at the memory, and Mycroft found himself blushing again as he watched the noodles slowly soften and begin to curl in on themselves in the pan. The cop stirred them occasionally, from time to time setting the spoon down to do other things.

First he pulled a jar full of something red from the refrigerator. Then it was a bowl, into which the thick red stuff was poured. Mycroft realized it was sauce about the time it went into the microwave by the smell of garlic, tomatoes, and a large number of other spices. It was, however, not a store brand. He raised one eyebrow, and Greg explained.

"My grandparents live in France, and they have a large, lovely farm and grow all their own fruits and vegetables. That was where my mother and father met and fell in love, and when they moved here, my mother decided to start her own small farm, not all that far from London. They think that I don't eat anything good here in the city, and are constantly sending me vegetables and things in the hopes that I won't turn up one of these times looking like I live behind my desk and eat nothing but takeaway."

"Aah. So this is from your parents?" The smell was starting to fill up the room, and Mycroft inhaled and sighed. It was a truly lovely scent, and he realized that the sauce was probably every bit as good as anything they could have eaten at Angelo's, though he would have cut out his own tongue before hurting the man's feelings by saying that in front of him.

"Yes. My mother, Francesca, loved travelling and cooking when she was younger. She went everywhere, and would work on farms and in bakeries and restaurants to pay her keep and learn new things. That was why she was at the Lestrade Farm—she was a travelling worker, there to pick vegetables. He helped her carry in vegetables one day, when she grabbed a few more than she could really handle, and they ended up talking for hours, or so they tell me. Apparently theirs was love at first sight."

Greg rolled his eyes, but the warmth he felt toward his parents was obvious in the soft curve of his mouth, and Mycroft wondered what it was like, to be so easily affectionate toward family. He and Sherlock were getting better, but he knew they would never fit anyone's definition of normal.

"They must be lovely people." Mycroft murmured, a small part of him mourning the fact that his own parents were anything but while he watched Greg, a little lost in thought, dumping the noodles into a colander, turning on cold water to mix with the hot that was now running down the drain. Steam filled the air, temporarily obscuring his face while he spoke.

"I used to always think of their little farm as home. Even when I moved to London, and got set up here in my job, and got married and got a bigger flat. I was actually tempted to give up my job and move back there after the divorce, but instead I got a tiny flat of my own, which is all right, but I have never thought of it as home."

Mycroft frowned, wondering why he'd never considered that Gregory might not be as fond of London as he was. If he truly didn't wish to be a cop anymore, Mycroft could get him a position that would allow him to move closer to his parents… though it would complicate their relationship even more, by adding more distance.

"It's only been recently that I realized that a person can have more than one home, and that 'home' isn't really a place, but the memories or people in that place."

This gave the politician pause, and he wondered where Greg was going with it.

"I've actually come to think of your flat as more of a home than mine, because even when you aren't here, I feel closer to you when I'm here than at my own place." Mycroft blinked, mind going completely blank again at the compliment. Gregory held him in as high a regard as his parents. He didn't know why that impacted him so strongly, but it seemed like every time Greg made a comment like this, he found himself shocked and pleased at the same time.

"So why don't you move in?" The words just kind of flew out, but Mycroft had been contemplating making the offer anyway, and felt like it was an appropriate time. Maybe it was irregular to move in together after only about a month and a half of dating, but they had known and liked one another for years. And if Sherlock and John could live together after only knowing one another for a couple of hours… well, how hard could it be?

"I… Are you serious?" Greg asked, a little incredulous. Mycroft lowered his gaze to the still steaming pasta which was now back in the pan, trying to ignore the faint hint of hurt he felt at the fact that Greg hadn't simply said yes. Did he not trust Mycroft to know his own mind by now?

"Only if you want to, of course." The politician said stiffly, moving to pull the sauce carefully from the microwave for something to do that would let him avoid eye contact. Greg, who was having none of that and sensed his lover's hurt, came over and wrapped his hands around Mycroft's, holding the bowl with him and making it impossible for him to not look up without making it obvious.

Never one to avoid a challenge, Mycroft raised his gaze, knowing better than to hide the flicker of hurt in his haunting mercury depths. Greg would figure it out anyway, but trying to hide it would make him think that Mycroft didn't trust him.

"Are you daft, baby? Do you honestly think that I would turn you down?" Moving in closer so he could cup Mycroft's face, he made sure to look him right in the eyes so he would know, without a doubt, that every word he said was genuine.

"I am in love with you, but I need you to understand one thing. While your flat is lovely, and I do quite enjoy spending time here, I enjoy it because it lets me be close to you. And do you want to know why that makes me so happy, Mycroft? It's because _you_ are my home. I would love to move in with you, because it means that I get to be with you even more often, but even if you never made the offer, home is where the heart is, and mine is always with you, wherever you go."

Swallowing past the lump in his throat from the emotion threatening to take him over, Greg tilted his head forward to rest his forehead against his lover's, letting their breath mingle as Mycroft's eyes widened, swirling while he processed Greg's words.

After only a handful of seconds, the DI found himself pressed back against the counter, moaning while the younger man ravaged his mouth, nipping at his lips and sucking on his tongue and letting his own dart in and out, using things Greg had taught him to drive them both crazy with desire and need.

Reminded of what they'd been doing only when Mycroft's stomach protested once again, Greg hesitantly put his hands up and grasped his shoulders, nudging him backward.

"We need to get some food in you before we do that. You've lost weight again, and it isn't good to go so long without eating. I don't think you've taken very good care of yourself while you were away, baby."

"Perhaps I was homesick," Mycroft replied huskily, and it took Greg a beat to catch onto his meaning. It was the affectionate smile that gave him away, and Greg's heart melted a little. _He feels the same. He thinks of me as home_.

"Yes, well, we'll have plenty of time to discuss that over spaghetti. Now come on. The sauce is pretty excellent, but it is definitely better when it's warm."

The two of them settled at the table together, and Greg told small stories about his work since it went without saying that Mycroft couldn't share anything of his own absence. Afterward, they ended up in bed after two rounds of passionate lovemaking, twined around one another. As Greg started to drift off, Mycroft's head on his chest over his heart, he heard the younger man murmur to him softly, almost as if he expected him not to hear.

"I've never felt at home until I found you." And that, Greg thought before drifting away on the currents of dreams, was another sweet but sad reason to never, ever let Mycroft go. After a few minutes more, they were both asleep, relieved to be home.


	12. Hurt

**A/N: Okay, so this one kind of just ran away with me. I know this chapter is significantly longer than normal, and I did contemplate breaking it into two, but I couldn't seem to help myself, so I hope you are okay with the extra length. There's a lot of plot, and a lot of Mycroft vulnerability, so if that's your thing, this is your chapter. **

**I know I normally only post one chapter a day, but dear readers, I have a problem. That problem is too much time on my hands, and characters that are far too interesting. Thus, you get two chapters today, because I'm already done with the one after this as well, and I don't want to keep this chapter from you since I'm now sure I can deliver more Mystradey goodness to you tomorrow. I hope you like my representations of the parents, and I hope you like this chapter as much as I enjoyed writing it!**

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"So my parents are going to be in town this weekend. I was thinking you might like to meet them? Maybe we could do a sort of miniature family gathering deal?" Mycroft barely reacted to Greg's comment. He was reading something intently while the older man watched crap telly, and the contents of a file containing things he wasn't supposed to know about was spread out in front of him. Instead of an uninterested murmur or something to that affect, his usual response when Greg interrupted something important, Mycroft temporarily went very, very still, his eyes freezing on one particular line for a period of three seconds.

For a normal person, that sort of pause could simply denote interest. But Greg, who had seen Sherlock pick apart someone's entire life in a three second span, could only imagine what could go through his lover's mind in that period of time. That was all it took to know that something was wrong. It didn't take him long to figure out what the problem was, remembering their conversation from a few weeks ago, about his and Sherlock's parents. He cursed himself silently while wondering how to remedy the error.

"I was thinking that my parents and Sherlock and John might come over and we could cook something together." Greg almost winced at his own pathetic cover, and he knew it didn't work by the way Mycroft's eyes never strayed once from the documents on the table, not even to glance up at him for a brief smile before resuming their current pursuit.

"Fine." Mycroft's tone was quiet, but he still hadn't looked up. Sighing, Greg flicked the telly off and took a seat across the table, looking right at his lover. His eyes didn't so much as flick to the papers he probably wasn't supposed to know existed, let alone read, so focused was he on Mycroft who finally, _finally_ looked up, old hurt surfacing in his eyes.

"Is this something we need to talk about?" Mycroft asked, voice still far too quiet. Greg frowned.

"I don't know. Is there?" He crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back in his chair. There were times when being gentle with Mycroft was the answer, and then there were times when he had to be tough, not offer him a chance to say he was just tired or preoccupied or anything along those lines. This was obviously one of the moments in which getting him to talk was going to be a bit harder. It was a good thing they'd both practiced this enough to understand that Greg wouldn't back down, and Mycroft would eventually crack. The time it took shortened each time, until this time, almost without resistance, he explained himself.

"I know you were suggesting that our parents should meet. And you are probably correct. But I cannot help thinking that they are bound to be as different as the sun and the moon, and that my parents will be their usual selves and either alienate your parents and you, or possibly attempt to make Sherlock or I uncomfortable, insignificant, or idiotic. Or all three. My parents are very good at making people feel about three inches tall. They inflict pain as easily as breathing."

"And being around them hurts you." It wasn't a question. Mycroft treated it like one anyway.

"I'm not sure they even realize they do it, truth be told, but yes, they are among the handful of people on the planet who are capable of hurting me. If you think that we should give it a try, I will agree, but I am concerned, Gregory, that you will meet them, see what I am capable of becoming, and run away. And I would not stop you if you did."

"Mycroft, baby, I'm not going anywhere. Even if your parents are as bad as you think they are, and it's admittedly pretty unlikely that you're exaggerating, that still had no bearing on the fact that I love you. If you don't want them here, we won't invite them, but it seemed unfair to introduce you to my parents without braving yours."

"I… if you think it's a good idea." Mycroft said reluctantly, then frowned. "What about your siblings?"

Greg, who had three siblings, all more than a decade younger, was very family oriented. Mycroft had seen that in his file. Two little sisters and a younger brother, and Greg had been fiercely protective of them, and generally spoiled them before his move to London, when visits had become rarer, though they hadn't ceased entirely.

"I'm sure that Anna, Emma, and Jeffery can come visit us another time. I only suggested Sherlock and John come because I know you consider them your closest family, even though you don't admit it out loud, yet. I'm not as close with the twins and my little brother, so it doesn't really make sense to invite them to this. Soon, I'm sure, they'll be here with or without an invitation, to meet the man who's stolen my heart. For now, let's go to bed. I'll go ahead and make the call to my parents tomorrow, if you're agreed. Shall we say Saturday, at noon?"

Mycroft quickly calculated in his head, and decided that yes, his parents would be free at that day and time. He did keep an eye on their schedules. And Sherlock had no cases at the moment that weren't attached to Greg's division, and he was unlikely to receive any in the next three days. He nodded.

"Excellent. And I'll inform the boys tomorrow when they come in to fill out their reports, or at a case or something, so all you'll have to do is contact your parents. How do you feel about making spaghetti for everyone?" Greg knew how much his lover had enjoyed the dish when last they'd had it, the night he'd cooked for them both, so he hoped it might put a smile on Mycroft's face. It did, but the pale imitation was actually worse than no expression at all. Still, he was trying for Greg, not attempting to fake it, and he appreciated the effort.

"Are you coming to bed then, baby?" Greg asked, a little apprehensive. It was rare that Mycroft didn't at least try to go to sleep when he did, because of the opportunity for cuddling and for other, more strenuous activities. Tonight, though, hurt was still lingering in his lover's gaze, and his heart sank when Mycroft, after a moment of hesitation, shook his head.

"No, I need to finish working my way through this file, and then I have to figure out an appropriate response. I'll be in when I'm finished."

Knowing that Mycroft was probably not going to come to bed at all, and that the contents of the file probably weren't as important as they were being made out to be, Greg nonetheless knew when to surrender the field. He smiled and made it the whole way to their bedroom before the expression slipped, replaced by a frown. He waited up for more than two hours, but did eventually drift off, waking in the morning to find the other side of the bed disturbed, but for a note on the pillow apologizing and explaining that Mycroft had needed to be into work early.

A little frustrated, Greg went to work and carried on his normal routine, placing a quick call at lunch time to his parents and then talking to John, while Sherlock was occupied by a locked room mystery, a little while after that.

Mycroft's day involved quite a few meetings, news of a successful operation that had thankfully had no casualties, and one rather painful ten minute phone conversation with his mother, who had grudgingly agreed to come to lunch on Saturday, on the condition that he allow her chef to come and prepare a meal, as she'd found his cook "less than adequate" last time they'd stopped in, unannounced, and he'd had to call her in on five minute's notice because his parents had refused to go out.

Heart sinking, Mycroft headed home, finding Greg sitting at the table with a cheerful smile, two plates already arranged. He'd made them chicken that night. Smiling hurt, everything hurt, but Mycroft did his best anyway, aware that not doing so would hurt Greg. He was, after all, obviously trying hard to make him feel better. His concern wasn't strictly necessary, but it was sweet, and exactly like him.

"You can drop the fake smile, baby. Do you want to talk about it?" Realizing Greg was not planning to let him get away with faking it, Mycroft sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose. Talking to his parents always left him feeling as if he'd just been run over by a rather large truck with needles for tires, and tonight was no exception. He hoped Greg would be fine with just cuddling in bed… if he wanted to be around Mycroft at all, after he revealed the first of many small slights his mother would be delivering to his lover by the time their lunch was at an end.

"Not particularly. But my mother has requested that her private chef do the cooking." The way Mycroft said "requested" made it fairly obvious that it hadn't been a request at all, but rather an order. So that was a no on the cooking together, then. And the politician looked exhausted, or at least miserable, and had barely touched his food by the time Greg finished. Greg frowned at him, wondering if his appetite always fled at the thought of his parents. Was this some sort of psychological thing, or some deeper issue even than that?

"That's fine." Greg realized he'd not responded to Mycroft's comment at all, too busy trying to figure out how to help his lover. The younger man just nodded, eyes never meeting Greg's while he cleared up their plates with quiet movements that were a touch stiffer than normal.

"How do you feel about just going in, cuddling, and forgetting the world for a couple of hours, baby?" Mycroft froze in the middle of putting Greg's plate in the sink, spinning around to study his face. Greg wondered what the scrutiny was about, until the Holmesian ability to practically read one's mind by a ketchup splash on the bottom of their shoe reared its head to enlighten him.

"You actually still want to be here. Even after I've told you my mother is already attempting to rearrange our plans to suit herself." In Mycroft's eyes, Greg could see something of the boy he would have been, hopeful and shy and constantly pushed away from other children by his parents and their abrasive, controlling natures. Had he had any friends? Or had his life been entirely academic, because his fear of losing anyone he might try to let in because they were deemed unsuitable had made it impossible for him to trust anyone but his little brother?

Heart hurting for his lover, Greg reached out and tangled their fingers together, drawing Mycroft in for a long hug. He did nothing but simply hold him for a long moment, trying to find words that would adequately express his thoughts.

"Just because your mother has control issues doesn't mean that I would take it out on you. I'm not going to let your parents drive a wedge between us, baby. I just hurt for you, that you're so terrified now that I'm going to leave you or something, because no matter how ridiculous that idea is, you seem to think it's a certainty, and I wish I could do something to make it clear to you that I'm not going anywhere."

Burying his face against Greg's neck, Mycroft wished, with all the heart he'd never thought he possessed, that he could believe that not even his parents could tear them apart. But he remembered the first and last time he'd tried to bring a friend home, even tried to have a friend, and could only imagine how they would feel about his bisexual lover, who would never provide the Holmes line with offspring, in addition to the cardinal sin of not being rich or overly influential.

As far as Mycroft knew, his parents hadn't even been aware he was gay, because he'd done a very good job of tamping down any unwanted emotions. He'd been doing just fine at it, too, until Greg had come along and everything had gone sideways. He couldn't regret it, but he knew his parents were probably going to be extremely awful about it. Mycroft would be a disappointment, because he had been raised to listen to his head, and never the heart they would happily have cut out of him, and that would hurt.

"I think cuddling sounds like exactly what I need right now." Mycroft finally stepped back, hoping fervently that his lover's words were true, even if he couldn't quite convince himself that anyone would actually want to stay with him.

The days leading up to Saturday were quiet, both men usually lost in their own thoughts, and when Saturday did come around, Greg woke up in bed, alone, at six in the morning hearing noises from the kitchen. He groaned but rolled out of bed, pulled on trousers, and went to see what was going on. As far as he knew, Mycroft still hadn't done any kitchen exploration of his own.

Standing in their kitchen was a stout, elderly woman with a disapproving gaze, who glared at Greg as soon as he emerged from the bedroom. Mycroft was nowhere to be seen, and Greg wondered if he'd been left to deal with the preparations on his own.

"Mister Mycroft went out. You put shirt on." The woman said sternly, gesturing with a wooden spoon at his lack of attire. Running a hand over his face, Greg headed back to the bedroom and flopped down on the bed. When he checked his phone, there was a text from Mycroft, explaining that he'd let the woman in at around four that morning whilst on his way to a quick, emergency meeting that should be wrapped long before lunch. He told Greg not to worry, and he wished that that was advice he could actually take.

The morning went from bad to worse. Apparently a nice button down and jeans wouldn't cut it, if he was going to be meeting Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. Sieger and Violet, he was informed, expected better from the people they associated with. He was forced to pull out the only really nice suit he owned, and was told that it was still much too low quality, though if it was the best he had, it would have to do. The woman also declared that the flat was a disgrace because Greg's jacket had been tossed over a chair the night before, and snarled about the weather like that, too, was his fault.

The DI was miserable by the time Sherlock and John arrived, early, to find the flat looking like a small but fancy restaurant, a long, elegant table that wasn't theirs dominating the living room. Greg's couch, which was still uncomfortable but had been moved despite that because he was attached to it, was banished to the bedroom, which was fortunately large enough to accommodate it easily. A pristine white cloth had been spread over the table, place settings had been added, and taper candles had been arranged at precise distances along the length. Greg had been told on pain of death to touch nothing, so he was on the street outside, smoking and trying not to wonder what his life had become.

"Greg? What are you doing out here?" John looked confused, but Sherlock held his hand out for a cig, ignoring the fierce glare his flat mate sent him. From the smell of him, it wasn't his first that day, but Greg, who was beginning to understand the horrors that awaited them, lit one and handed it over without a word.

"Lestrade is undoubtedly out here because Matilda has taken over the flat to make it presentable. He will actually be lucky to be allowed back in. Has Mycroft not purchased you a better suit for occasions such as this?" Sherlock looked a little surprised at his brother's little lapse, and took a long, contemplative drag from the cigarette he held slightly too tightly between two long, pale fingers.

"No. He wanted to. I said he shouldn't waste money on something like that. I didn't think… Well." Sherlock, who knew exactly what Greg had thought—no one's parents could possibly be that judgmental that they would disapprove of a person because of the quality of their suit—frowned even more deeply than normal. He was still having issues with emotion, but Greg was something close to family to him.

"Perhaps an emergency appointment with our tailor? I'm sure he could get something suitable together for you in the next two hours." Sherlock glanced at his watch as he spoke, though he didn't need the device to know the time. It was a reflex he'd taught himself to appear more normal, and he knew his parents would hate it. They'd raised him to consider himself above others because of his intelligence, not to blend in. He had taken special care that morning to dress in jeans and one of John's old army shirts, just to piss them off. His flat mate had seemed surprised but said nothing. He could now see the gears turning in his head.

"I… if you think that's for the best. I want this to go well, for Mycroft's sake. He seems to be under the impression that I'll hate him tonight or something." Sherlock, who remembered the events that would prompt that line of thought, nodded curtly, aware thanks to John's tutoring on social conventions that it was not his place to explain for his brother. Instead, he simply crushed the butt of his cigarette out, tossed it in the gutter, and started walking, knowing the other two would follow him.

There was a black suit just about Greg's size at the tailor's, and he managed to adjust it in a quarter of an hour, discreetly accepting the large bonus Sherlock paid him. Even if he hadn't known his brother would pay him back, there was no way the consulting detective was letting someone who considered him a friend go unarmored into a meeting with his and Mycroft's parents. Sieger and Violet were extraordinarily unpleasant when they chose to be, and he had no doubt that the day would be an unquantifiable disaster no matter what they did, but he was going to try his best to make it go well for the couple, even if it meant putting his own head on the chopping block. Thus, the clothes he wore, which were nothing like his normal attire.

"So tell us a bit about your parents, Greg." John said as they were walking back, Greg having remained in his suit after the final fitting. He and Sherlock seemed to have reversed roles, or at least exchanged clothes, but at the mention of his own parents Greg lit up.

"My mother, Francesca, and my father Jean, are two of the warmest people on the planet. You'll love them, and they'll love you, John. They run a small farm outside London, and Mom loves cooking. They're very much in love, and while they aren't obnoxious about it, you can tell they belong together. They're very vibrant and open and sweet."

Sherlock, who couldn't help thinking that Sieger and Violet, who were the exact opposite and probably would have been mortally stunned if Mycroft or he called Violet anything so casual as "Mom," started to get even more concerned. He tried using another cigarette, stealing it out of the suit pants in the bag Greg carried, but found it wasn't killing his nerves.

They were halfway to the flat when a black car pulled up alongside them, with a very pale Mycroft Holmes inside. He said nothing when they entered, but his gaze took them all in, and he met Sherlock's eyes with reserved gratitude and a promise of repayment after seeing the suit Greg was wearing. He took the bag his lover carried and stashed it under the seat, hoping Greg would still be around later to reclaim it. Sherlock looked every bit as nervous as he felt, but Mycroft knew he could cover his feelings if he chose to. The fact that he didn't… he was going to attempt to distract their parents.

The politician shot his younger brother a look that said he knew exactly what he was doing, but Sherlock just shrugged so subtly no one who wasn't a Holmes would have noticed it, making it clear that he was willing to throw himself on this particular grenade, and that Mycroft should just focus on keeping himself and Greg out of the blast radius. Feeling both relieved and guilty, Mycroft nodded once, and Sherlock turned to the window, eyes staring at nothing while he tried to prepare himself.

The car dropped them off with half an hour to spare, and Mycroft allowed himself to put up a couple of layers of ice, so that is façade would be pristine even if he wasn't nearly so calm on the inside, and Sherlock was puffing away on another cigarette, until John took it from him and deliberately stomped on it. If he'd known what they were in for, Mycroft thought, he wouldn't have done that. He might even have taken one for himself.

It was too late then, because two cars were pulling up to the curb at the same time, and two more different vehicles had never existed. Sieger and Violet stepped elegantly out of a BMW, while Francesca and Jean jumped down from what looked like a vegetable truck. The couples stared at one another for a moment as if stunned, obviously not expecting the sights that greeted them. Mycroft, whose jaw was starting to hurt from the way he was holding it, watched them take one another in.

Greg's parents weren't dressed badly, exactly. They both wore jeans and button downs, which was perfectly acceptable attire. Francesca had tied her hair back with what looked like a length of twine, and Jean was wearing thick work boots. Violet, however, was dressed in a white sundress just this side of formal, and Sieger was turned out in an elegant suit that perfectly complimented his salt and pepper hair. They looked like they belonged on different worlds, rather than just at different events.

"Mom, Dad." Greg strolled over to his parents and gave them hugs, not noticing the way Violet's lip curled ever so slightly at the display or the searing glance Sieger shot his eldest son. Then he turned to the Holmes parents and extended his hand, every inch the gentleman. But he'd already sunk himself, both by not waiting for Mycroft to start the introductions and by displaying an overabundance of affection. Mycroft had to resist the urge to run away at the distaste already written on his parent's faces.

"Hello. You must be Violet and Sieger. Mycroft has told me many wonderful things about you." Greg offered them a charming smile while they shook his hand, and Mycroft rather sedately greeted his own parents and grunted in surprise when Francesca pulled him in for a hug abruptly, stating that if he was half as sweet as Greg said, she would soon be treating him like one of the family anyway.

Things went from bad to worse when they went inside. Sieger and Violet took turns with vaguely disapproving comments, and Mycroft could see the moment Greg's parents started to become uncomfortable. Instead of backing down, however, they seemed to make it a personal challenge to draw their counterparts out of their shells, their attempts thwarted repeatedly by icy, false smiles and curt answers. Mycroft could see them getting more and more frustrated, and it ended up coming to a head when they sat down for their meal after what felt like an eternity of agonizing small talk.

"Oh, boys, this looks lovely. Did you cook this yourself?" Greg's eyes widened at his mother's comment, but before he could answer, Violet cut in.

"Certainly not. I doubt that a police officer would know how to turn out a meal like this. Our personal chef took care of it." Violet looked smug, but she missed the flash of rage in Francesca's eyes, before the woman rose to her feet, slamming her hands down on the table. It was one thing to insult them, as the woman had been doing repeatedly, but to insult her son was to cross a line over which there was no coming back.

"You will not talk about my son with derision. After all the work he and Mycroft put into today, why can you not at least pretend that it matters to you?" Francesca was used to expressing herself loudly, and watching her and Violet was like watching fire and ice clash. Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment, all hope of a peaceful ending fleeing entirely, leaving only images of a lonely future without Greg in its wake.

Violet, who had never had anyone talk to her with anything but courtesy, also rose to her feet, outraged that a _peasant_ was scolding her as if she were a child.

"You dare talk to my wife this way?" Sieger, who saw the effect Francesca's words had had on his wife, also came to his feet calmly, though his voice was low and warning like thunder.

"She sure as hell hasn't treated anyone with respect today, not even her own children. No one gets to look down on my son." Jean answered, work-roughened hands curling into fists at the way Sieger looked at his wife like she was something he'd scraped off the bottom of his boot. He wasn't about to let anyone treat his family that way, and he could see, in both Greg's and Mycroft's eyes, though the younger man was admittedly harder to read, that the cutting little remarks the other couple had been throwing out since their arrival, had hurt.

"We are leaving." Sieger cast an imperious look over the room, his gaze finally coming to rest on his older son, his aristocratic features carved from ice as he watched his son take comfort from a hand that had found its way into his. That was the last straw, for him.

"Consider yourself no longer a member of our family until you remember who you are. We didn't raise you to consort with common rabble, or to show such unseemly displays. These people are not worth the interest of a true Holmes."

With those last words Sieger and Violet swept out, and Mycroft stared at the door, eyes wider than Greg had ever seen them, hurt radiating from him. But then, slowly, he got himself together, hand slipping from Greg's as he straightened his tie, no expression in his eyes. He could have been a statue, with his hands clasped behind his back—no longer joined with Greg's—and his eyes vacant of anything reminiscent of the man Greg knew him to be. This was the ice prince the Holmes family had raised him to be.

Even Greg's parents, who barely knew him, noticed the change, and cast uneasy glances at one another.

"Shall we resume our meal?" Mycroft spoke, as if nothing had happened at all. John looked startled, and Sherlock looked worried, but they both returned their attentions to their meals, and Jean and Francesca, after a moment's hesitation, did the same. Greg, however, who was on his feet along with Mycroft, wasn't willing to let his lover retreat back behind his walls of ice.

"May I talk to you for a moment in private, Mycroft?" He kept his tone careful, as if talking to a wounded wild animal, and Mycroft surprised him a small, frigid smile and instant compliance, heading to their shared bedroom without a word. After one nervous glance at their remaining guests, Greg followed him, shutting the door with a soft click.

"Are you okay?" Greg asked in a low voice, not sure how to offer comfort when Mycroft looked like a stranger. He wanted nothing more than to gather his lover into his arms, but he honestly wasn't sure how that would be received at the moment.

"Is there some reason I shouldn't be?" Mycroft returned evenly, the chill in his voice permeating the room. Greg wanted to shake him, and ask where the Mycroft he was so in love with was hiding. That, however, was likely to end in a fight, so instead he walked over so they were only inches apart, and put his hand over Mycroft's heart. The younger man froze, expression cracking ever so slightly from confusion… and suddenly Greg could see _his_ Mycroft again, with a heart so full of hurt that, not knowing how to express it, had simply tried to shut down, as was the conditioned response he'd been raised to give.

"Mycroft, baby, you've got to let me in. I know you're hurting right now, but I can't help unless you let me. I know that was bad, but we can deal with it."

"Why would you want to?" The brokenness in Mycroft's eyes made Greg feel like he was bleeding, but there was relief there, too. Because even though his lover was in pain, at least he was still feeling. That meant that he was still there with him, and that there was a way they _could_ fix it.

"Because I'm in love with you. And you're in love with me. And no matter how awful things turned out today, I will still go to sleep tonight with a smile on my face, because any moment spent with you is redeemed by your presence, no matter how terrible it might otherwise have been. Your parents are definitely not among my favorite people in the world after their little display, but you still _are_ my favorite person in the world. Except maybe Elton John. I would possibly leave you for Elton John."

The truly horrible joke actually did succeed in making Mycroft laugh a little, though the sound was rough and choked and the gesture was accompanied by tears that started flowing rapidly as if some sort of dam had burst and was no longer holding them back. Now Greg could pull Mycroft into his arms, holding him while he wept, listening while he forced a story out through the stifled sobs he was trying to suppress.

Mycroft told Greg about the only friend he'd ever had, before him, a boy named Phineas who had come to the Holmes house one day to work on a project with Mycroft. His parents, who had been extremely unenthusiastic about their guest, had offered the boy's family money to keep their son away from the young prodigy. The next day at school, Phineas had shoved Mycroft and called him a freak, and then he and a group of young men their age had beat him up.

When he'd gotten home from school, body sore and heart breaking, his parents had told him that that was how common people would always act, and that they were not to be trusted. He'd learned about the payment years later, but by then, the message he'd gotten from the whole affair had already become his mantra. _Caring is not an advantage_.

Although he'd been aware that Mycroft's heart was fragile, Greg hadn't known the extent of it until that moment. He hurt so badly for his lover, and all he could do was press gentle kisses against the top of his head and hold him a little tighter, whispering how much he loved him and how he would always be there for him, no matter what happened.

Eventually Mycroft was calm again, and he retreated to the in-suite to freshen up a bit. When he returned a couple of minutes later, his face was almost back to normal. His eyes were slightly red rimmed, but other than that, he was his usual pristine self. Greg, whose shirt was wet from the tears he'd shed, simply pulled his suit jacket over the spot to cover it, earning a grateful little smile from his lover. While he might be okay with breaking down in front of Greg, he wasn't yet that comfortable with anyone else.

They returned to the table and finished their meals, which had only gone slightly cold by that point, and Mycroft had been surprised when Francesca and Jean had gotten up to clear the table off, saying that it was the least they could do, after the two men had given them such a lovely meal. A little overwhelmed by their friendliness, Mycroft let his hand curl around Greg's, seeking guidance.

"Everybody helps out in my family. This is their way of saying thanks. Just let them go." So he did, and after the dishes were washed and put away, the six of them made their way down to the street to say their goodbyes.

"It was wonderful to meet you, Mycroft. And you, Sherlock and John. I would like to apologize for offending your parents. I'm sorry if we made things uncomfortable for you." Sincerity rang in Francesca's voice, and he didn't object when she pulled him into a hug. He did have to set something straight, however.

"You needn't worry about having offended my parents. They are the sort of people who are never satisfied with anything, and their little temper tantrum at lunch made your reaction look more than reasonable, I can assure you. I do hope that their behavior didn't put you off too badly, and that you feel welcome to come back."

Everyone's jaw dropped at the usually reserved Mycroft being so… _kind_ was perhaps not the word, but was the closest thing anyone came up with. He wasn't being polite, but genuine, and Francesca, who understood this, was the first to recover, followed quickly by her husband, who also hugged Mycroft, to the younger man's surprise.

"Take good care of my son, Mycroft. I can see you have so far." With that Jean got back in their truck after shaking hands with his son and the others, and Francesca went around and hugged everyone before following him. They drove off, leaving everyone in silence for a few moments, the gloom of London meaning that they were the only people out on the street just then.

"Does anyone have a cigarette?" Sherlock broke the silence by asking, and John pulled the pack he'd hidden earlier that week out of his pocket and handed it over without so much as a halfhearted glare. The consulting detective handed one to Greg and Mycroft both before taking one for himself, and they stood there smoking on the sidewalk until they all ran out of cigarettes and John and Sherlock went back to Baker Street.

Greg and Mycroft didn't talk about the events of the day as they headed back up to the flat, but the first thing they did, almost as if they were on the exact same wavelength of thought, lift the overly fancy table up, cloth and all, and carry it over to the large window overlooking the building's dumpster. Together they tossed it out after opening the window, and it landed with a crash, splintering into pieces.

They then went to bed, even though it was barely evening, and proceeded to strip one another of their elegant suits and take one another apart just so they could have the pleasure of putting each other back together. And Greg took advantage of the time to kiss Mycroft all over, wiping away the hurt and replacing it with love, until love was all he could feel.


	13. Time

**Back on schedule with the normal, one a day updates, at least for now. This little piece is basically just Greg pulling Mycroft out of his shell a bit, and Mycroft being a little mischievous. Fun stuff. More plot tomorrow. Enjoy!**

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"We should do something fun." Greg said as they sat at the breakfast bar one morning a couple of weeks after their disastrous lunch with the families. Mycroft glanced up from his coffee, a quietly amused smile on his face.

"I thought this was fun." Mycroft took another sip of his black coffee, the taste not even making him flinch. Greg had sampled it once on a whim, and winced. He preferred sugar and cream in his, even if black coffee was more "manly." It was funny; most people would think that Mycroft would be the one in the relationship who fussed over coffee. And in most things, he was the one who liked things one certain way, while Greg was more go with the flow. Coffee was one area in which their roles reversed.

"You reading the newspapers of three different countries, none of them ours, and drinking that sludge while I sit here and actually eat breakfast is not 'fun,' baby." Greg made a face, and Mycroft shrugged, setting the Russian paper aside for a moment.

"Okay, then. What do you suggest?"

"Do you have any hobbies? I know you're not really the type to go to the pub and watch a game or anything like that, but surely you do something in your spare time."

"We've been living together for nearly a month now, Gregory. In that time, have you ever seen me do anything that didn't have to do with Sherlock, work, or you?" It was a fair enough point, and Greg frowned. He really hadn't seen Mycroft engage in any kind of relaxation. He had more than a couple of bookshelves, but never seemed to read. He had a room with a cabinet of sheet music and a piano, but Greg had never heard him play.

"What did you do with yourself before I came along, then?" Greg couldn't even imagine the world Mycroft must have lived in, if he truly had no hobbies, nothing to fill his time but work.

"If I truly had nothing to do, I would occasionally compose music. And at night, if the weather was nice or at least not cloudy, I would sometimes stargaze, up on the roof."

Greg was still frowning, and Mycroft wondered how he could wipe that expression away. He hadn't lived a horrible life, no matter that it hadn't been filled with nights at the pub with friends or spent in front of a telly screen screaming at sports players. Maybe his life hadn't been as full as Greg's, but he hadn't been bored. Lonely and bored were two different things.

"So you pretty much just spent all your time working or looking after your brother?"

"I spent my time doing what I was good at. It might seem like an empty life to someone else, but to me, it was what I'd worked toward. I am very good at what I do, you know. It means that I rarely have spare time anyway, though I have gotten a bit more of a life since you came into the picture, admittedly. I didn't need meaningless activities to fill my time. I had a purpose. I still do."

"Well, it's nice to have goals, and to fulfill them. Still, don't you ever just want to do something just for the hell of it? Just play for the sake of playing?"

"I suppose not." Frowning now, Mycroft considered Greg's words. That was, after all, what normal people did. They filled their time with meaningless activities designed to bring them joy, with no reason more complex than that behind their actions. Even Greg had hobbies that fell into the category of meaningless, as far as Mycroft was concerned. And yet, how could Greg's happiness be meaningless? This required more thought.

"It occurs to me that as long as I am spending my time with you, I don't really care what we're doing. I'm content to sit here all day with you like this, but if you'd like to go do something, we can." Greg smiled at Mycroft, charmed, once again, by his lover's matter-of-fact way of reminding him how important he was to him. There were days when Greg came home feeling like a used up old cop, but when he was around Mycroft, the younger man had a way of making him feel important again.

"We should do more with our time than just sit here all day. We so rarely get an entire uninterrupted day off together unless you're injured. I feel like this merits celebration."

"Fine. Pick something, then." Mycroft waved a hand, returning his interest back to his paper for the moment. It would take Greg at least ten minutes to figure out what he wanted to do, he knew. He'd made the suggestion without any hope that Mycroft would actually agree to it, and now he would be sorting through possibilities and wondering which ones would be the best use of their time.

"You said you play piano?" Greg asked finally, earning a nod. Since he finally seemed to have some sort of direction for their day, Mycroft finished a fascinating article on a change in the governmental structure and finished the last of his coffee, not caring that it was half cold. He'd come to appreciate caffeine over the years exclusively for the benefits. The taste was irrelevant to him as long as it got him through the days that stretched into two or three.

"Yes. I used to be fairly good, according to my former teacher. I have only played and written for my own pleasure for a decade, however, so it is likely that I am rusty."

"I've never had anyone play piano for me before. We could start there, if you think you'd like to do that for a bit?" Greg was still coming up with other ways to fill their time, but he had been curious about the piano, and had wondered if he would ever get the chance to hear music coming from their music room.

"Sure. I'm probably rusty, though." Mycroft led the way to the room, gesturing for Greg to join him on the extra-long piano bench. He frowned, wondering what the bench could possibly be for, and noticed Mycroft blushing a little.

"I did have a normal bench, before we started dating. I purchased this because I had a feeling you would find this… sexy." He didn't give Greg a chance to respond to this comment, instead starting with scales. His fingers flew easily over the keys, and after a minute or two, he launched into an original composition, low notes mingling gently with higher notes to illustrate the loneliness of his life before Greg, until eventually he moved up an octave, moving faster that Greg would have believed possible to play a sequence of jubilant, celebratory notes. He knew without asking that this was the story of their relationship, and that Mycroft had written it in his head, if this was truly his first time playing since before they'd started dating.

"You have a definite gift," Greg said when he finished, staring at his lover as if seeing him for the first time. Mycroft smiled and shook his head modestly, earning a deep kiss that made him wonder if he mightn't just convince Greg that the best use of their time off was a day spent in bed.

"No. We did that last time we had a day like this together, too." Greg said when he finally convinced himself to break the kiss, knowing exactly what Mycroft was thinking by the way his hands tangled in soft silver hair.

"I was recovering from a knife wound then. That hardly counts." Mycroft pouted a little, knowing he wasn't going to get away with what he wanted.

"No? Despite that scratch, we had sex five times that day, and another two times that night. It would be exactly the same thing, but without worrying about ripping that cut open. And we didn't worry for very long that day, either." Smiling at the memory, Greg still rose to his feet, giving his lover one last kiss before taking his hand and pulling him to his feet.

"Come on, baby. We're going out." Unable to resist that look on Greg's face, especially when directed toward him, Mycroft followed willingly, eyebrows scrunching together when he realized where they were headed.

"The London Eye? Really, Gregory?" Amused despite himself, Mycroft let Greg lead him on, and when the ride stopped while they were at the top they made out like horny teenagers, barely noticing when the ride started to move again. Next was a small park, where Greg surprised him with a picnic. The lack of other visitors and the fact that the picnic basket was set out, complete with chilled champagne and warm chicken, Mycroft attributed to Anthea.

After that, they strolled hand in hand through the park, and then down to the river. To Mycroft, it seemed almost like Greg was taking him in circles, but he had a feeling he knew where they were going. He said nothing, not wanting Greg to think he felt it was a waste of time to just meander together. It really was rare that they had a full day together like this, and Mycroft really did appreciate any time they could get.

When they finally reached Baker Street, Greg smiled sheepishly, because he knew Mycroft had long since figured out where they were going.

"John invited us over tonight, for dinner and poker afterward. He and I both occasionally play with a few of the guys from the force, but we decided that you and Sherlock might enjoy learning something new. I hope you don't mind?" It was impressive, the things Greg had arranged via text message while Mycroft had been focusing on other things. His lover was surprisingly thoughtful and creative, a ridiculously appealing combination in one who was already so physically attractive.

"So this is how you filled your time before me?" Mycroft asked as they climbed the stairs, not surprised that the front door wasn't locked. Sherlock would probably have known when they were coming down to the exact minute, and had John unlock the door for them.

Unlike the last meal they'd all had together, this one was really pleasant, and the night only got more enjoyable for all parties as time went on. Greg and John laughed about the way Sherlock scolded Anderson, which was something they couldn't do in front of the forensic tech, and even Mycroft smiled a few times, exchanging the occasional glance with Sherlock that spoke volumes more than either man would say.

The night was a success, Greg decided as John pulled out a deck of cards, shuffling like a pro.

"So, John, Gregory tells me that the two of you often play this game with some of your friends?" Mycroft said as he picked up his hand, glancing over it almost absently before discarding two and gesturing for two more. If the additions to his hand pleased him, he didn't give it away with so much as a twitch of his eyebrow. Greg and John had explained the basics to the Holmes brothers, who'd shared a single glance involving two raised eyebrows, a smirk, and a shrug, and now Greg was hoping he was able to at least win a hand or two before Mycroft and Sherlock caught on and started kicking their asses.

Unfortunately, that was not the case. Sherlock won the first hand, and Mycroft the second and third, followed by Sherlock winning the forth. It went on like that for two hours, until John threw up his hands in defeat.

"It's a good thing we weren't playing for money. I think we just got hustled, Greg." John laughed good naturedly and elbowed his flat mate, who wore a surprisingly kind smile when he looked back at him. Greg flicked a glance to Mycroft, who also watched the exchange, eyes glimmering though he said nothing.

When they finally left, the two strolled the streets, a little reluctant to end the night so soon. Eventually, however, they ended up there, and as Mycroft slowly undressed, Greg stepped up behind him and rested his chin on his shoulder, wrapping strong arms around his waist to hold him for a long moment.

"Not a complete waste of your time, then?" Greg asked teasingly, murmuring low right into his ear. Mycroft shivered, but his eyes were surprisingly solemn when he turned to look at his lover.

"Time spent with you is never wasted, my dear Gregory. And I did enjoy, as you say, 'kicking your ass' at poker." Greg wrinkled his nose at that.

"Not my fault you're bloody perfect at absolutely everything you do." His expression softened then, and he pressed their lips together gently, lovingly. "But for the record? I wouldn't care if you hustled me like that every night. I had the time of my life, watching you have that much fun."

Mycroft's lips quirked up, and the next kiss was more passionate, though no less sweet.

"The time of your life, hmm? Perhaps I can convince you to reevaluate that statement." With that Mycroft quickly removed the rest of his clothes with Greg's assistance and they fell into bed together, a tangle of limbs and hands and hearts and, for one frozen moment in time, there was nothing in the world but the two of them.


	14. Ring

**A/N: Well, hello there. If you're still reading this, I thank you so very much. Your support means quite a lot. I imagine you can all guess the purpose of this chapter, so I won't waste your time explaining it to you. Enjoy!**

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Greg didn't think he'd ever been half this nervous in his life. The past three months had been the best of his life, but part of him felt like the relatively short period of time, as far as the scheme of things, had actually been far longer than three months. They'd been working toward this almost from the moment they'd met, from the clashes over Sherlock during his addict years to the grudging respect on both ends when he was solving cases, to the friendship that had formed in his absence.

Somehow, Greg knew, it was Sherlock who'd brought them together. So it was only fitting that it was Sherlock who'd helped him temporarily skip his Mycroft-mandated security detail so he could meet up with the consulting detective and his blogger at a small but obviously posh shop whose jewelry was of the finest quality, but not badly priced.

The woman who owned it had once been under suspicion of insurance fraud, which was how Sherlock had first met her. But he hadn't given up any details outside of that, and Greg hadn't pressed. He was nervous, both about this and about what it meant, but he was ready. He knew he was ready.

"All right there, mate?" John clapped him on the back as he walked in, the tips of his hair a little wet from the drizzle that was just beginning. Rain on a wedding day was supposed to be lucky. Was the rain currently coming down outside going to be lucky for engagement? It was a question he found himself considering, no matter how silly he knew he was being, as he approached the counter.

An engagement ring. Right. He could definitely do this. He'd done it before, after all. This wasn't his first time proposing. It was just the first time it had meant this much. Sure, he'd cared quite a lot about his ex-wife, but he understood now what it was to really be in love. Mycroft was it for him, absolutely and for however long he'd have him. The only thing to do was pick out the ring, get down on one knee, and ask the most important question of his life.

"He's fine, John. He is very nervous, though." Sherlock commented, watching the DI scan the case. Discreetly he glanced at the owner, a sweet woman named Kelly, who nodded and went into the back. She came out with a padded ring display, with about thirty different selections in it. They were the ones Sherlock felt would best suit his brother and the man he loved. Greg could easily turn them all down and continue looking, but the consulting detective felt he was very likely—97.89% chance—to find one he liked in the smaller group.

He hit on it immediately. The band was platinum, and the subtle diamond set into the front was a light color somewhere between blue and silver, the exact color of Mycroft's eyes when he was happy.

"This is it," Greg said, picking it up and examining it. "This is the ring for him." Anxiously, Greg turned to Sherlock while Kelly put the others away and rang him up, a thousand questions in his eyes.

"Yes, I think he'll like it. Everything in that group of rings you just examined was handpicked by me because they would be suitable for Mycroft."

"And do you think he'll say yes? Do you think he'll want everything that comes with the ring?"

Sherlock smiled softly, leaning his hip against the counter while Kelly accepted Greg's card and discreetly scanned it, the number lower than what it would have been for any other customer, though it wasn't an insulting discount.

"Lestrade, you're an idiot if you honestly think my brother would turn you down for anything. I am aware that most people consider three months to be a short relationship, but Mycroft had never done anything as other people do. His pace usually is rather accelerated, and if he wants something, he goes after it, no matter what other people think, unless he's too afraid to take the risk. You know who and what he is: do you honestly think that he doesn't want it as much as you do?"

"I… Thank you, Sherlock." On impulse Greg wrapped his arms around the man he'd come to think of as a younger brother, surprised when Sherlock actually patted his back in a nearly comfortable way. John's influence must have been working wonders on him. The doctor also hugged him, and Greg pocketed the ring before they all left, fingers occasionally brushing over the case as he tried to settle his nerves.

The three headed to Baker Street, where Greg could claim to have been for the past hour if necessary. He could say Sherlock had asked him over, and that he'd had no idea the consulting detective had gotten him away from his security detail. Sherlock, who loved to cause mischief, had actually asked for the privilege of convincing his brother that he was the cause of it, allowing Greg to propose in his own way.

The DI looked down at the box in his hands now as he listened to Sherlock and John bicker in the kitchen, the doctor brewing tea and the consulting detective in a strop about something. It was the normal state of affairs at Baker Street, and Greg found himself smiling at their sheer normalcy as he tucked the ring away, not a moment too soon. Three seconds later the door to the flat was opening, and Mycroft was inside, eyes locking on Greg instantly and filling with relief.

"Gregory, are you aware you were out of your security detail's protection for nearly an hour this evening?" Greg, who knew how hard it was to lie to a Holmes, had been practicing this with Sherlock ever since they'd left the store, until he could keep his face perfectly empty of guilt or any other emotion that would give him away. He had absolutely no tells as he looked first confused, then angry, and called for Sherlock.

The lanky man strolled into the room looking very bored, and shot a smirk at his older brother.

"Oh, hello, Mycroft. That was a bit slower than normal." He spoke casually, as if he'd made the man's favorite toy disappear or something. Mycroft looked torn between anger and relief, and finally settled on the latter when John came into the room with an upset look on his face. The last thing the elder brother would ever do was cause him more problems with his flat mate.

"I think it's time we go home, Gregory. Goodnight, brother, doctor." Mycroft, obviously a little upset, was clearly not willing to get into an altercation, so they all got out of what amounted to an unnecessary fight. Greg waved as he followed his lover, hoping that it wouldn't have set the brothers too far back. When he finally got to explain, he was pretty sure it would actually bring them closer, but for now, the best thing to do was just make Mycroft happy.

"I'm perfectly fine, Mycroft." Greg pointed out once they were settled on the couch, Mycroft sitting on the extreme far side with his hands clasped in his lap, knuckles white from strain. Greg could tell simply by his expression that he was wishing his umbrella was in his hands, just for something to hold.

"Yes, and I know that. Now." Exasperation bubbling up to the surface, now that Greg was safe by his side again, Mycroft rose to his feet, pacing back and forth. He didn't even notice Greg's hand move to slip into his pocket, thumb stroking absently over the ring box in an uncharacteristic nervous gesture.

"Baby, come on…" Greg stood and wrapped a hand around the younger man's wrist, making him instantly go still. He didn't even seem to be breathing for a second, and only the reassuring thrum of his pulse beneath Greg's fingertips told him otherwise.

"I need to know you're safe, Gregory. I need to know I am not going to lose you. I was so terrified that one of my enemies had found you, and I just couldn't take that. I can't lose you, my love." Terror was bright in Mycroft's eyes, though it was tempered a little by relief, and Greg found himself wanting to blurt out the truth of where he'd been, just to replace the fear with something warmer.

But then he remembered the reason he'd arranged things this way in the first place, and held his tongue. When he proposed, he was going to do it right. But he was definitely going to do it soon.

"Hey. Mycroft, I'm right here. You didn't lose me. You're never going to lose me. Sherlock would have noticed if anyone had been after me, and he wouldn't have done this if he thought I was seriously in danger." That was certainly true. Sherlock did consider him a friend of sorts, and he didn't risk his friends or their safety for anything. Hell, he'd jumped off a building for them; he'd hardly do something stupid and risk Greg's life now.

"I know that, but what if Sherlock had missed something? He is not infallible. It has happened before."

"No one is infallible, Mycroft, but you and your brother are the closest things to it. Sherlock would be careful with me even if he didn't care about my life personally, just because he loves you."

"I don't particularly understand why, but I suppose you're right." Mycroft frowned, realizing he was being taken off task. But it was true that Sherlock did seem to care about _both _of them, and that was extraordinary.

"I am. And do you know something else? I love you more than anything else in the world, and I will always return to you. So quit worrying. I _am_ capable of taking care of myself, you know."

Greg smiled and rested their foreheads together before gently brushing the tip of his nose back and forth against Mycroft's, reassuring him quietly. Casual physical affection had been completely foreign to his lover only a couple of months ago, but now he was able to return it, and it was wonderful, beyond wonderful, when he relaxed, moving to rest his forehead on Greg's shoulder and let the older man hold him close.

"I'm sorry I overreacted. But you've no idea how much you mean to me, Gregory. I never want to lose you, not even to my own idiocy. I have survived a great many things, but I do not think that I would survive without you. I am not sure I would even want to."

Greg, who understood the sentiment perfectly and felt the exact same way, just smiled as he whispered in his lover's ear.

"I love you."

"As I love you." Mycroft pressed a gentle kiss against Greg's cheek before pulling back ever so slightly, to look him in the eye.

"Let me take you out tonight, my darling? And I do promise to apologize to Sherlock for losing my temper… tomorrow." The politician sighed, fairly certain he was going to have to put up with his brother being even more arrogant than usual for a couple of weeks if he did that, no matter that it was the right thing to do. Sherlock had been playing a game, nothing more, and nothing _had_ happened, after all.

"All right." Greg acquiesced easily, knowing that he was more likely to be thanking his brother than apologizing the next day, if all went according to plan.

The restaurant was, unsurprisingly, extremely fancy. Greg found himself grinning as he realized that this was the seventh time Mycroft had taken him out for an apology dinner. Seven had always been his lucky number, so this seemed fairly auspicious.

A discreet text to Sherlock when Mycroft had taken a couple of minutes to change into dry clothes earlier meant that soft violin music was playing, but the elder Holmes didn't register that it was a live performance yet. He was doing nothing but anxiously watching his lover, and pretending he wasn't anxious, until he finally relaxed into their easy conversation.

"So there's something I want to ask you, Mycroft." Greg said when they were done, after sharing a rather decadent piece of cheesecake slathered in chocolate and caramel, their two favorite toppings. Mycroft leaned forward and licked a drop of caramel from his lover's lips, understandably distracted.

"Hey now." Greg chuckled, pulling back to hold Mycroft at arms' length. The politician pouted a little, upset at missing a valuable opportunity to see if the inside of Greg's mouth tasted as good as the outside, even though he already knew it did. It wasn't like he hadn't checked before, but it was something he never took for granted.

When Greg went down on one knee, Mycroft's eyes widened. Sherlock strolled into the private room and the violin music got a little louder, though he kept it soft so he would be background. He'd wanted to be a part of this, as a sort of thank you to his older brother for his constant support, but wasn't egotistical enough to make it about him. John was there too, right on his heels, happy for his friend and his flat mate's brother.

"Mycroft Holmes, ever since we met, you have taken me on a roller coaster ride of emotion, taking me to higher highs and lower lows than anyone else in my entire life. I never knew what it was to love a person completely. In all my past relationships, I always kept just a little of myself back, more focused on the job than on love so I would have something to fall back to if ever I should find myself alone.

"When it comes to you, though, there is no chance at distance. To lose you would shatter everything, and none of it would have meaning anymore. When we first met, I thought you were annoying, a little pompous, and intrusive. Now, I wouldn't know how to live without you, and all those qualities that are somehow endearing. I know who you are, and I don't think you are perfect, but if you'll let me, I'll spend the rest of my life proving that you are, in fact, perfect for me. So, my love, will you do me the great honor of becoming my husband?"

Sherlock had timed his performance precisely so that the music would end with Greg's last word, and the silence in the room was deafening for several long moments. Mycroft and Greg stared into each other's eyes, and so much emotion passed between them that it was impossible _not_ to know what was going to happen next.

Mycroft slipped out of the chair and went to his knees beside his lover, kissing him in a very passionate, very undignified way. Tongues, teeth, and lips were everywhere all at once, it seemed, and their audience of two disappeared as for the first time in either of their lives, Mycroft and Greg made love on the floor of a restaurant. Fortunately no one came in to check on them.

"That was a yes, if you were wondering." Mycroft said as they redressed, doing their best to make each other presentable so they could safely leave the room. There was a smile on his face when he looked at his lover, who in turn looked down at the ring on his lover—fiancée—'s finger.

"I know. So do you like the ring?" Greg inquired, tugging him in for another kiss which succeeded in mussing them both up a little once again.

"It's perfect for me, Gregory. As are you. We shall have to get you an engagement ring as well. And while we're at it, do you think we could pick out the wedding rings together?" Mycroft looked so hopeful Greg had to laugh, holding his hand tight as they left the restaurant and headed out into a surprisingly clear London night.

"Baby, if it'll make you this happy, we can buy as many rings as you like together."


	15. Fish

**A/N: My little world needed more moments of brotherly love, or as close to that as the Holmes brothers can manage, so I decided to do that, here. I did move thie conversation they're discussing out of place- consider it pre-Fall instead of post- but if you want to know about this, just look up the Mycroft goldfish conversation. The brothers played a game of deductions and Sherlock actually showed a little empathy for his brother (that's how I read it, anyway). Oh, and I actually give you smut this chapter, not glossed over. I figured it was time again. **

**One thing I would like to add: at some point soon, this story will wrap up. I can't say exactly when, but if there's anything anyone would like to see happen before it does, feel free to PM/review with requests. Reviews are always lovely. Enjoy!**

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"It would seem you were wrong, brother." Sherlock observed as he leaned back in his seat and steepled his fingers in his classic thinking position. Instead of retreating to his mind palace, however, he was watching Mycroft with a careful focus, face void of any former antagonism.

"About what precisely, brother dear?" Mycroft's words held none of the heat they would once have possessed, and that made both brothers smile.

"It would seem you were wrong when you told me you weren't lonely. You've found yourself a goldfish after all." The comment was not an insult to Greg, if the younger Holmes' soft, teasing smile was anything to go by. Mycroft, who distinctly remembered the conversation which had ended in a game of deduction where Sherlock had given him so much to think about, considered his statement carefully.

"I am not entirely certain I was lonely. I don't think I even knew what loneliness was until you were away, and I found myself friendless. While we were not exactly friends, ours was a relationship I missed. That was, in part, why I was far friendlier with Gregory than your doctor. I needed someone who could be mine, I suppose. Elsewise isolated, he was fairly perfect. It was an added bonus that he was one of a handful of people who still believed in you."

"I can't honestly understand why you would have missed me when you knew I was perfectly fine." Sherlock frowned, still a little uneasy about expressing emotion with his brother. They'd made a lot of progress toward mending the rift between them, but there were still times when Sherlock's fears tried to get the best of him. Mycroft was getting better at allaying those fears.

"Do you think John would have missed you any less had he known you were alive?" Knowing he'd hit a sore point, but one his brother definitely did need to examine, the elder Holmes continued. "When you love someone, you miss them when they are not around. You are my brother, but you are also the only person I've ever met who can challenge my intellect in certain areas. You are the closest thing to a friend that I have, besides Gregory. At that point, he and I were mere acquaintances, so you truly were the only person I had. How could I not miss you?"

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, and when he spoke, his voice was thoughtful enough for Mycroft to know that all his words had been considered.

"I really am the stupid one, aren't I?"

Mycroft laughed a little, toasting his little brother with his neat whiskey.

"Only in comparison to me. You are still the second brightest person in England, and your ineptitude in the area of emotion, contrary to what you think, is easily cured. Just consider what you once told me. There are worse things than tying yourself to a goldfish. And if you are very lucky, you might just find that you aren't with a goldfish at all, but someone who can teach you things just by being a part of your life."

"Couldn't have said it better myself," Greg said, amused, as he and John walked through the door, only a little tipsy. He could guess the direction the conversation had been taking by the tail end of what Mycroft had been saying, and knew he was the non-goldfish his fiancée—and he would never tire of that word, at least until it changed to husband—had been speaking of. He was curious how the whole chat had played out, but had already decided to only ask later, while they were alone.

"Whatever it was, it put one of those looks on Sherlock's face. Probably not good for me later." Despite his words, John's expression was totally relaxed as they took seats, Greg on the couch with Mycroft and, after a second of hesitation, John on the arm of Sherlock's chair. Sherlock looked surprised, and Mycroft and Greg both noticed the faint blush staining his cheeks. They glanced at one another and agreed silently not to offer to get another chair for Sherlock's very own goldfish.

"One of what looks, Dr. Watson?" Mycroft inquired instead.

"It's John, Mycroft. Seriously. And you know the look. It means an experiment, half the time on me, and the other half of the time I end up having to apologize for it." Sherlock frowned at that, averting his face so John couldn't see his hurt expression. The doctor did, however, as attuned to Sherlock as he was, and he sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. He was just not quite sober enough to not make an ass of himself.

"I didn't mean it like that, Sherl. You know I don't mind."

"But you still shouldn't have to put up with it," Sherlock murmured gloomily, for once not thrilling at John's use of a nickname for him. Guilt was not something he frequently felt, but it was bad enough tonight that he decided to do something about it.

"Come, John. I think we had best be getting back to Baker Street. It's late, and you didn't sleep well last night." John followed his flat mate, obviously feeling bad for having hurt him, and Greg and Mycroft were left alone in a matter of minutes.

Greg absently reached over and finished Mycroft's whiskey, a favorite of both of theirs, before pulling him close for a surprisingly deep kiss. Mycroft was both aroused and puzzled. Greg wasn't normally so affectionate right off the bat, even after a couple of drinks, and his breath didn't indicate an overabundance of alcohol.

"What on earth was that for?" Greg grinned.

"Thanks for not being as oblivious as your brother. And for saying I'm more than a goldfish, which I assume is an inside thing between the two of you. Care to explain it, speaking of?"

"A conversation we had once about loneliness, and whether or not I was lonely before, came up tonight. Sherlock once suggested I wouldn't actually know the difference, as I tried not to care enough to miss anyone. With my history, that was simply safer. I told Sherlock that, seeing as I was surrounded by goldfish most of the time, there was no point in forming an emotional attachment. I suggested he might not be remiss in reexamining and perhaps taking his own advice."

"Aah. So that's what the look was about." Shaking his head, Greg wrapped his arm around Mycroft's shoulders, holding him close.

"Yes. I highly doubt anything will come of our little conversation tonight, however, considering Sherlock's hurt feelings. He'll need to feel confident if he's going to consider approaching the idea of making a move, and I think that John is unlikely to be the aggressor, at least at first. If things move to the bedroom, he'll undoubtedly have to take over, but he's still struggling with his sexuality at the moment."

"Good thing some of us know better, and just keep our eyes and minds open and let ourselves fall for someone who's right for us, no matter their parts."

"Quite so. You are also much less oblivious than your counterpart, as far as these things go. I don't know if John even realizes that he can't keep a girlfriend because he's already in love. And if he can't even realize his own feelings, there is no way he will catch on to Sherlock's. Not without some sort of revelation, at least. I don't know what will happen with the two of them, really. They dance around one another, but neither seem to have the courage to act, or even admit the truth to themselves. I think Sherlock is almost there, but then he'll let something small set him back, something that, if anyone else said it, wouldn't even bother him."

"That's proof that he loves John, though. Probably the only proof he actually lets himself show. Sure, he blushes and all, but those are things he can't prevent. He's been trying to show John that he cares. I think John's just terrified."

Mycroft scowled at this observation, but didn't say how ridiculous he found the idea of Captain John "Three Continents" Watson being afraid of anything regarding sex and other associated concepts. Greg was still better with emotions, and he knew John better than Mycroft, thus, would be better able to figure out what his hang ups were.

"Seriously, baby," Greg said, seeing his fiancée's expression. "John has only ever been with women. It's not that he's against being gay or bisexual, but he's never thought of himself in that way. I'm pretty sure he was never attracted to a man at all, before Sherlock. But your brother has already left him once, no matter if it was to save his life. That's bound to make it difficult to believe he won't do so again, and then there's the fact that Sherlock's never been in a relationship, and has always said he doesn't want one. John might not think he has a chance, and might just be afraid to try because he doesn't want to lose Sherlock. I think, given the proper knowledge, he would find the courage to try."

"You really think so? He seems rather obsessed with the idea of being straight." Mycroft was a little surprised by Greg's small laugh.

"He's only protesting so much _because_ he is finding out that he's not who he thought he was all those years. Eventually it's going to occur to him that one attraction is not a life-altering thing, and that it doesn't mean he has to figure out a new label for himself. He will eventually come to the conclusion that he can be attracted to women _and_ Sherlock, and that nobody who really matters will care, except to be deliriously happy for both of them, and they'll end up sharing a bedroom instead of just a flat."

"So you think it's John who'll make the first move?"

"Sometimes goldfish are smarter than they look." Greg shot Mycroft a knowing glance, full of love and desire. It still stunned Mycroft sometimes, how much Greg cared about him, how easily he showed it. Mycroft was becoming emotionally literate, but his fiancée was a professional at it. If he thought John would make the first move, he was probably right, especially with how Sherlock had a tendency of ignoring his own emotions when they were uncomfortable, or he feared hurting his flat mate.

"You're certainly better at this sort of thing than I am. Is there any way I can help them that doesn't involve meddling?"

"You can help them by making it clear to Sherlock that you think he can do this. I actually had a talk with John tonight, and he did indirectly admit to being confused about the whole thing. Your goldfish analogy probably isn't too far off the mark; our minds are awfully slow and weak compared to yours and Sherlock's, but he did eventually admit that part of why he has a hard time coping with Sherlock's typical indifference is because he cares. 'More than he should,' he says, he cares. And he did admit that it scares him."

"I didn't know that you two even talked about that sort of thing. I thought men went to bars to discuss sports?" Greg nuzzled his partner's neck while he talked, which was reasonably distracting, so much so that Mycroft barely heard his next words.

"That's what most of us do, but occasionally, we also brag about our partners. John and I don't hang out with most of the guys we used to, as most of them have given up on relationships and go out every weekend to get completely drunk. The two of us still believe in romance, and we do talk about that sort of thing. It does take a secure man to talk about rogering another man in the middle of a regular pub on a Friday night, but I am a pretty secure man, and anyone who tried to get into a bar fight with me would get more than they bargained for anyway."

Greg paused then, after flicking his tongue over the sensitive spot beneath Mycroft's ear that always made him shiver.

"John used to talk about his girlfriend of the week, but lately, I talk about you, and he just talks about Sherlock. And he can talk for hours about Sherlock. He drank a little more than usual tonight, and I think that's why he was a little looser with his tongue. Apparently he caught Sherlock watching him the other day, decided that it was obviously for an experiment of some sort, and they got into a row about it."

"And Sherlock wasn't watching John because of an experiment. He was looking at him because he's in love with him."

"Exactly. But see, John doesn't know that. And we can't just tell them. Even if it wouldn't be horribly invasive, they wouldn't believe us. Well, Sherlock might believe you, but I think that would terrify him even more, because you would then have to explain why John hasn't yet approached him about it, and he might do something really stupid like try and run away instead of getting them both to deal with it. I think they both need a little more time before they can commit to this, but I do think they'll get there. Speaking of getting there… bedroom?"

"Do you even have to ask?" Laughing, Mycroft let Greg tug him up, and when they got to the bedroom, he undressed his fiancée slowly, starting with his tie and jacket before eventually stripping him down to just trousers. When he removed those, he got a surprise; Mycroft wasn't wearing any pants.

"They ruin the line of these trousers, and I would hate to look unprofessional." Mycroft's eyes sparkled, and Greg just about lost it. He hastily tugged his own clothes off, with a little help from Mycroft, and then it was Mycroft taking charge, hands on Greg's chest, pushing him gently back against the bed, head on the pillow. He knelt between his legs and licked him slowly, earning a shiver and one long, sweet moan before engulfing his head and moving up and down, coating him in saliva. This was one of their favorite ways to make love, ever since Mycroft had discovered, to his extreme delight, that he could both receive and be on top.

His enthusiasm for sex had only grown as time had gone on, and he'd quit being afraid to show his pleasure long ago. He moaned around Greg, making him grow impossibly harder, before moving up onto hands and knees.

Greg, fingers already slathered in lube, slowly began to work on his lover, first one finger, then another, and then another, until he was rocking back on Greg's hand, body begging for more while small moans and whimpers escaped his throat, sounds that Mycroft no longer attempted to stem, which pleased Greg more than almost anything else.

"Are you ready, baby?" In response Mycroft shoved Greg back on the bed, straddled him, and slowly went down on him, throwing his head back and letting out a small sob from the sweet ache being possessed by Greg always gave him, without fail. Their hands linked as Mycroft moved on him, linked together tightly as the slow ride pushed them both closer and closer to the edge. They took their time, wanting to savor every sweet moment of it, neither wanting it to end though they knew it would. And it wouldn't matter, not really, because they would hold each other in the afterglow, and then there would be another round, this night or the next or whenever it could happen again, and it would be just as perfect as this moment.

Finally they reached the end, and Mycroft screamed his release into Greg's mouth as their lips crashed together, riding Greg through his orgasm until they were both boneless with pleasure and wonderfully exhausted. Mycroft collapsed to the side, then, but stayed close, laying his head on Greg's shoulder. They were covered in sweat and semen, but neither was inclined to move. Mycroft managed to locate Greg's boxers and wipe them both off before tossing them in the general direction of the laundry basket. It would have to do; getting out of bed anytime in the next four hours at least was simply not an option. Post-coital cuddling was one of his favorite things.

"You know what, Mycroft?" Greg asked, voice still husky. Mycroft moved just enough to be able to look at him, see that soft smile and capture it in his head so that he could hold onto the moment forever. All memories stuck with him, but if he really focused, he could put them in a special file. More than anything else, Gregory showed up in that file, which signified all his greatest hits, from getting the job of his dreams to finally making peace with his brother. Gregory's smile, however, replayed more often than anything else, and Mycroft had to force himself to not get distracted. Listening was always worth it, because then he would have words to go with the images.

"What, my darling?" Mycroft was extremely affectionate after lovemaking, both physically and verbally.

"Out of all the goldfish in the sea, I will always be eternally grateful to whatever God exists that you chose me."

"I don't know about a god, Gregory, but I can tell you one thing: I will always choose you. Out of all the fish in the sea, you are the only one that I ever want by my side, for the rest of my life."


	16. Snow

Mycroft sat quietly in the early morning hours, hands clasped over crossed legs, a mug of steaming coffee at his side as he watched snow tumble from the heavens, reforming into graceful skirls of white that shimmered beneath a weak sun as they danced their way across the grounds. On a typical morning, having already been up for half an hour, he would already have answered something like four calls, fixed at least one minor crises, if not major, and would have his assistant at his side, furiously texting replies to all the people who weren't lucky enough to merit his attention.

This morning, however, he was firmly on vacation, and the only thing on his mind was the snow, and when his fiancée would wake up. Well, that and _one_ tiny little telephone call about an airborne virus in Berlin, which had probably been dealt with by now. He probably should text Anthea and check, but instead he picked up his mug and took a sip of coffee that would have made his Gregory shudder and gag. The thought made him smile. Greg looked cute no matter what he was doing, somehow, and those faces he made were always oddly charming, every time he forgot and took a sip of Mycroft's coffee. It had happened six times so far.

Eyes on the tumbling drifts outside the window, Mycroft had the curious urge to rise from his seat and go outside, enjoy the cold, frozen little drops of water melting against his skin. When was the last time he'd been in the country for any reason other than work? Twenty five years, he realized, was a very long time in which to never enjoy such a simple pleasure.

But he'd never enjoyed it as a child, either, he recalled. Their parents had never let them out in the rain, snow, or any other sort of bad weather. They'd had run of the grounds only when there was little risk of them getting sick. It hadn't been a very happy childhood, he thought now, looking with something akin to longing at the winter paradise outside the window.

When Greg had suggested that they take the weekend and go spend it with his parents, Mycroft had been a little apprehensive, which hadn't stopped him from clearing his schedule that same day. They'd driven up in Mycroft's personal car, his Jaguar— a shimmering cherry red color that had surprised Greg—and this was their first morning here. They'd been up late the night before, talking with Greg's parents, and all of them were still asleep. Mycroft, out of habit, didn't sleep much.

He'd managed to figure out the coffee maker on his own, and then had come to the closed in area of the porch, where he'd remembered seeing the most magnificent vista on their brief tour the day before. Unerringly, he found his target, and he assumed that Greg would come find him when he woke. But the few quiet minutes he was snatching here were oddly relaxing, from a man who had once considered idle hands a cardinal sin.

His hands did itch to do something, but there was really nothing to do, besides work, that he could do without Gregory awake anyway. And the man looked entirely too peaceful while asleep. He hadn't been able to make himself rouse him that morning, and instead had watched him sleep for several minutes before deciding that lingering longer would have bordered on creepy and stalkerish.

So here he sat, nursing a cup of coffee that was no longer steaming or even particularly hot, waiting for his fiancée to find him. And before the coffee went completely cold, Greg did knock on the doorway before entering, a small smile on his face. He was dressed in jeans and a tee shirt that stretched tight over his chest—a leftover from college, Mycroft noted absently—and looked positively delicious, hair still slightly mussed up from the night before. A rare bright smile decorated Mycroft's face at that, and Greg couldn't resist smiling back as he leaned down and kissed the man he loved.

"What have you been doing, baby? Your side of the bed wasn't even really warm anymore. And it's no fun sleeping in when there's no one to sleep in with."

"I suppose I wanted to see the snow. I've haven't seen it fall quite like this, so pristine and gentle, since my childhood. And even then, it was always just glimpsed out the window."

Greg blinked.

"Seriously? You've never been out in the snow before?" Greg looked caught somewhere between surprise and horror, an expression that was pretty commonly seen on his face when Mycroft talked about his childhood. It rarely came up, but when it did, Greg always felt like his heart was bleeding for his fiancée, who had never had a chance to be a kid. He did occasionally catch glimpses of childlike wonder in him, something he'd obviously once suppressed, and he'd made it a mission, almost, to give Mycroft the things he should have experienced in his youth.

"Not really. Not for fun, at least. I have been out in it going to and from places, but we weren't permitted outside in the snow as children, and London's snow is far too impure to be tempting. Here, though… it's beautiful."

Grinning slowly, a look that Mycroft had come to associate with scheming, Greg kissed him on the cheek and murmured that he would be right back. When he did return, he had four other people in tow: his brother, Jeffery, sisters Emma and Anna, and Anna's husband, an American named Everett. He'd moved to England two years before and fallen madly in love with Anna, who had returned the sentiment, and the whirlwind romance had reached marriage in just a couple of months. Greg had always sort of envied his sister that, but now when he saw them he just smiled and discreetly took his own fiancée's hand.

"Okay, everybody, I called you here because Mycroft has never played in the snow. We're going to have a good, old-fashioned snow ball fight to remedy that. I assume the lovebirds are sticking together, so which of you remaining two wants to go where?"

"I want Greg." Emma and Jeffery announced simultaneously, before busting into laughter. Mycroft, a little confused, waited for them to sort themselves out, or at least explain.

"I'm the best in the family at snowball fights. When the four of us used to go at it, everyone always wanted to be on my team. Okay, if I recall correctly the last time we did this I teamed up with Jeff, so I think it's gonna have to be Em. Everybody go grab your snow gear!" Everyone darted off, Emma smiling and squealing victoriously already, and Greg tugged Mycroft back up to their shared room.

"I have some spare gear, and Dad also agreed to loan you his old set, so go ahead and take what you need from the pile. You'll want a pair of gloves, a thick jacket, snow boots, and a few layers on bottom, covered by those slippery trousers. Ear muffs are optional, as are hats." Greg spoke while changing, so Mycroft basically just copied how he was dressing. It was exciting, if a little nerve wracking, to even think about attempting this.

"Hey Mycroft? Don't look so scared." Greg walked over when they were dressed and gently cupped his face in both hands, moving in to give him a feather light kiss that promised more later. Somewhat mollified by this, the politician followed his fiancée down and outside into the crisp morning.

The sun had only been up for a couple of hours, and that wasn't nearly enough time to make progress on the snow, which had finally stopped falling while they'd all been dressing. Emma walked over and joined the two of them, looking surprisingly sporty with a band of fabric pulled over her forehead and ears for warmth, and the grin she shot them was wicked.

"Ready to kick some ass?" She joked, and Greg nodded with an easy smile. Mycroft, meanwhile, was wondering how hard it would actually be to make a snowball. It had never looked that tricky on television, but then, the telly rarely showed things as they actually were.

Mycroft's suspicions were proven right the first time he tried to make a snowball. His fingers, not nearly as dexterous with the gloves on, managed to crush the first one entirely, the second one wasn't tight enough and fell apart when a breeze hit it, and the third one was entirely too wet, and had a strange, heavy consistency.

"Over here, love. You'll want to use snow that isn't starting to melt." Greg bent and expertly made a snowball. It was nearly perfect, of course, and Mycroft studied the way he did it. Anne, Jeff, and Everett, amused by the fact that Mycroft had never participated in a snowball fight before, had agreed to give Greg time to teach him. One thing they all forgot was that, as a Holmes, Mycroft was a fast study.

Once he knew how it was done, he was able to scoop up a snowball every bit as nice as Greg's. He promptly threw it at his fiancée, surprising everyone. Greg gaped at him, eyes huge, as he started laughing at the look on his face. The others all joined in, watching snow slide off his face and land on the ground.

"Was that better then, my love?" The teasing words would normally have meant retribution, but Greg reminded himself at the last second that they were supposed to be on the same team.

"You get one cheap shot because I love you, Mycroft. Next time, hit them, though, yeah?" Grinning because Mycroft flirting with him was probably the sweetest thing he'd ever seen, Greg walked over and kissed him, not caring that they had an audience. There was more than one wolf whistle before they finally broke away, cheeks pink from the cold and a little shyness on Mycroft's part, and Greg winked as he bent, scooped some snow into his hand, and turned around to lob it directly at Anna. And then it was on.

Eventually everyone was cold and covered in snow, and there was no clear winner. Everett was fantastic, which meant Greg didn't have his usual advantage, and Mycroft, though good, did not yet have his usual proficiency, as he was still learning both the game and the playing field.

They retreated inside, where Francesca and Jean had already made hot cocoa for everyone, and they all settled around the old fashioned fireplace in the living room. Mycroft, to Greg's amusement, was perfectly fine with sitting on the ground with him, having given his parents and sisters the couch and chairs. Greg draped one arm over his shoulders and he cuddled closer, more than happy with his current accommodations if it meant being close to Greg.

"So, did you have fun today, baby?" Everyone else was talking, and though there was a pleasant buzz of conversation in the air, nobody was listen to them, giving them some privacy.

"Yes. I didn't think I would enjoy it quite so much. Why do so many people take it for granted, the ability to run around and play like that? The snow makes everything beautiful and fresh and new… like the world is waiting to be discovered again."

Greg had to kiss him then, because he looked so earnest and innocent, and when they drew apart, Mycroft's lids fluttered open as if he was waking up from a long dream. There was a small, extremely shy smile on his face.

"Gregory?" He asked suddenly, biting his lip in a way that, though he didn't know the effect he had on his fiancée, would always make Greg want to give him anything he asked for.

"Yes, baby?"

"Have you ever… made a snow angel?" At Greg's nod, he continued, words practically bubbling over one another in their attempt to get out. "I read about them when I was a child and used to imagine making one. What's it like? Is it cold, or is the snow soft?"

"Want to find out?" That, Greg figured, was easier than trying to describe it to Mycroft all night long. From the way Mycroft's eyes widened, it seemed he hadn't expected the offer. Unable to resist now, Greg took his hand and they slipped out together, leaving the others in the warmth. To give Mycroft another first, braving the cold would always be worth it.

"Okay. Do you know how? Well," Greg said when Mycroft shook his head, "basically all you do is find an undisturbed area and just sort of fall backward. You have to be careful, though, to pick an area at least as tall as you and wide enough to accommodate your arms stretched out at your sides."

The two of them walked to the boundary of where they'd been having their snowball fight, and Greg gestured to a large, untouched section of virgin snow. He put his heels to the edge and turned his back on it, stretching his arms out. Mycroft, getting the idea, did the same, standing close so that the tips of their fingertips just barely brushed when they strained. Nodding, Greg counted backward from three, and they fell backward together, landing and sinking slightly into the powder. Mycroft made a surprised noise, but otherwise was quiet as the two of them slowly started moving their arms and legs, creating the wings and capes of their angels.

"This is lovely." Mycroft said a few moments after they'd fallen still, and Greg smiled up at the darkening sky. It wasn't all that late in the evening, but daylight hours were short in winter, and they were just about spent for one day.

"You really like this? It's not too boring for you?"

Mycroft sat up and looked at Greg, making a face.

"Are you serious? This is fantastic. There's so much data here to consider and absorb, not to mention that I'm never bored when I'm with you. You provide me a measure of… peace, I suppose I'd call it." Mycroft looked at his fiancée thoughtfully, wondering why Greg didn't seem to understand, even now, just how much he meant to him. Then he brightened. It just meant that he would have to keep showing him, which really wasn't a bad thing, at all.

"Let's go inside, darling. As lovely as this snow is, I want to peel you out of those clothes and see how much steam we can create in our bedroom." Greg grinned at this, practically jumping to his feet as he grabbed his fiancée's hand and helped him up. They rushed inside, leaving behind two angels in the snow, joined together for the rest of their fragile eternity.


	17. Dark

**More fairly shameless smut for you, my readers. I'm mixing it in with the plot because, while I know we're getting closer to marriage and whatever comes after that, I really don't want this to end. I'm enjoying writing it so much, and I hope you enjoy reading it. Here's your next installment!**

* * *

It was dark when Mycroft finally got home, and Greg, knowing it was going to be a long day, had fallen asleep on the couch. He was snoring ever so slightly, and his head was at what looked like an uncomfortable angle against the arm of the couch. He would undoubtedly have a headache if Mycroft left him there for the night, and that idea was unappealing anyway. He much preferred it when they shared a bed, and rarely ever actually slept when he wasn't able to share a bed with his fiancée.

"Gregory." He kept his voice pitched to a low murmur, so he wouldn't alarm the sleeping man. Sometimes the work caught up with him, and on those nights, he would have nightmares. He usually tossed and turned and made noise, but not always, and Mycroft had nearly gotten hit more than once trying to wake him.

"Darling, you need to wake up. You're going to have the most awful headache." Mycroft stepped closer, careful not to trip over the coffee table. He hadn't turned a light on, and the room was still very dark, the only light coming from the moon filtering through the windows. He maneuvered carefully to stand beside the couch, where he could back away without stumbling over the coffee table.

"Gregory…" Mycroft sighed, but there was a tender smile on his face when his fiancée barely stirred. He had discovered one way to wake him with touch that didn't result in getting punched, and he was close enough to pull it off if he bent over carefully…

Not touching his lover anywhere but his lips, Mycroft kissed him gently, brushing their lips together. Back and forth in a feather light touch he moved, until he felt Greg sigh against his mouth. He kissed him a bit more firmly then, and his lover responded. In the dark, it was nearly like having their eyes closed, but there was a sliver of moonlight casting over Greg's face, and he could see the color of one eye very clearly, the chocolate brown he loved.

"Good morning," Greg murmured, relaxing back against the couch. Then he winced at the pressure on his neck, and shifted so he could sit up.

"It's not morning, love, but night. It's dark, or didn't you notice?" A little amused, Mycroft cupped his jaw and claimed one more kiss before helping Greg to his feet. He had been almost tempted to carry his fiancée to the bedroom, but he hadn't done that sort of thing yet. Usually Greg took the lead in their relationship, and it was a balance Mycroft wasn't sure he wanted to disturb. It was strangely nice to be taken care of, and though he did reciprocate, he liked the way their relationship worked.

"I know it's dark. I also know you like to wake up way too early in the morning. But I guess you wouldn't have left me on the couch and gone to bed by yourself. You don't sleep when you're alone." Even sleepy, Greg made a remarkably astute statement, and Mycroft paused.

"I wasn't aware that you'd noticed that." It wasn't a cold comment, but one filled with tenderness, and Greg smiled gently, taking advantage of the dark to catch Mycroft off guard and press him gently against the wall, kissing him while their hips rested comfortably together. It was a matter of moments to shift from his mouth to his neck, trailing kisses along the smooth, pale slope of that elegant neck.

Mycroft let out a small, low sound, fingers scrabbling for purchase when Greg swirled his tongue over his pulse. They wrapped around his hips then, unconsciously pulling him closer to grind their hips together, seeking friction. He hadn't even been remotely hard when he'd seen his fiancée asleep, but he was fast making up for that. So was Greg, by the feel of things.

"Damn. I should wake you up more often." Mycroft didn't often curse, but it was a turn on for Greg, who growled and nipped at his skin gently, earning a gasp that sent blood rushing south. He was a goner for this man; always had been, always would be. They were only a few months in, but already making arrangements for the wedding. And, of course, they were enjoying the benefits of being in love and making plans for forever. Every time they did something together in preparation, they ended up falling into bed, both having stunningly voracious sexual appetites for men of their ages.

"You should fall asleep on the couch more often, then." Mycroft said, reaching one hand up to play with Greg's hair now that his hips were rocking just like he wanted them to, admiring his fiancée. His hair was the only thing the light touched at the moment, and it glowed silver in the dark, drawing Mycroft like a moth to a flame. It was irresistible, and he found himself shifting so he could nibble at Greg's neck. The sound the older man made before pinning him harder against the wall was almost as satisfying as the increased friction.

"If it gets me this every time, I'll do this every damn night." Greg whispered into his ear before nipping at the lobe, making his knees go a little weak. "I know you sleep better after I take you."

It had taken Mycroft a while to get used to dirty talk let alone reciprocate, but he had learned to put his silver tongue to good use in the bedroom as well as the office, and could give as good as he got, now.

"And you sleep better after I've ridden you to orgasm and made you beg for it until the only word you can manage to say properly is my name. Should I make you squirm for me tonight, my love?"

Greg let out a sound caught somewhere between a groan and a grunt, and bit down on his neck hard enough to make him emit a choked scream, a sound that no one else in the world had ever heard, or would ever hear. That knowledge was its own kind of aphrodisiac to Greg, knowing Mycroft would never belong to anyone but him like this, and he realized he had been waiting for _this_ all night, maybe all his life. The knowledge hit him like a freight train, and he was nearly undone by it as he pressed their lips together, trying to express with a kiss what he couldn't find words to say.

Mycroft wasn't a genius for nothing, and caught his train of thought instantly by the intensity of his fiancée's embrace. He felt dominated, but for once, the thought didn't fill him with terror. Instead, he felt like he could leave all his worries at the door and just give in to sensation and love, if only with Greg, if only in the dark.

"Take me to bed," Mycroft requested, and it shot heat straight through Greg. The man he loved never asked, always ordered, but he was surprisingly fragile under Greg's hand. The two of them simply _worked_, which was why the kisses turned as gentle as spring rain as they lead each other to the bedroom, shedding clothes with slightly shaking hands as if it was their first time all over again. Each time had its own flavor, but this felt new all over again, and each of them savored it.

In the dark, they could have been strangers, each with a life outside this moment that didn't include each other at all. They saw each other in glimpses of reflected light, a glimmer of pale skin here, a flash of a stormy eye, darkened with lust, there. This was intoxication at its finest, if their sighs and moans were any indication, and they were both carried away by the moment.

Lips and hands met as their bodies moved together slowly, as if they hadn't already memorized one another with kisses and caresses months ago. There was nothing rough about their lovemaking; it was a gentle, smooth glide, body to body, mind to mind, and heart to heart as they worked toward their climax together.

When they went over the edge, there were no screams, but instead soft sighs of release, and the only sounds in the room for quite a while after that were quiet pants and the sound of fabric sliding over skin as they cleaned each other off. Now the dark didn't feel anonymous, but intimate, and as they moved to cuddle each other close, it felt almost as if they could be the same person, the same organism, as they let themselves slide into a dreamy half-state between sleep and waking. At some point, they both went fully over to sleep, and stayed that way for several hours.

Mycroft was, as usual, the first to wake up, and it was still quite dark outside. The promise of dawn lurked on the horizon, the gold and red of the sun all but hidden behind a layer of thick fog, turning the world hazy and settling a blanket of quiet over everything. Mycroft stirred slowly, lazily, cuddling closer to Greg as if it could stop the break of day from finding them.

"Ugh. Please tell me you don't have work this morning." Greg's voice, a low growl due to the heavy influence of sleep, made Mycroft shiver, suddenly aware that he was, once again, hard. And judging by the erection nudging against his hip, thanks to the way Greg had wedged a leg between his in sleep, his fiancée was equally ready.

"Anthea can reschedule." He said without so much as glancing at his phone, because the face of the man in front of him was far more interesting. It was still dark, yet, and there was still time for them. Here, in the night, they had no boundaries, and could simply be two men, alone in the silence, where the real world couldn't intrude.

Soon, daylight would invade their sanctuary, and the problems of real life would come filtering back in. Sherlock would do something crazy to nearly get himself killed, or the Prime Minister would make some stupid mistake on national television that would need seen to, and someone out there on the London streets would finally commit that murder they'd been contemplating for months, and the world would be full of chaos again.

But for the moment, it was just the two of them, and these stolen moments always managed to be enough for them. They moved together in the dark, two bodies of one mind who'd long since exchanged hearts, and as Mycroft rocked against his lover, taking him deep inside himself, he found himself smiling.

"I love it when you look at me like that, Mycroft. Like I'm the only person in the world…" They rarely actually talked during sex, but sometimes, like now, they did. It didn't detract from the main event in any way, and sometimes, like now, actually enhanced it.

"To me, tonight, you are." Mycroft leaned down to kiss him before moving back up for better leverage, making sure Greg grazed against the spot inside him that made him want to scream in delight. "There's a part of me that always lives in these moments, Gregory. Part of me is forever tangled around you in the dark of night, in a place that is exclusively ours."

"God, baby, you undo me." Greg thrust upward then, and whatever words Mycroft might have said in return fled from his head as the pressure built. It wasn't long before they were reaching orgasm together, and it wasn't long after that that darkness faded and daylight finally invaded their little haven.

"I do have to go to work now, my love. I'm sorry." Mycroft was always apologetic when it was time to leave, but as Greg helped him tie his tie, smoothing it neatly against his chest before stepping closer, hand still wrapped around the smooth silky tie, for one last kiss. There was a smile on the DI's lips, despite the fact that Mycroft's work today was likely to take him away from London, and him, for at least a couple of days.

"Don't be sorry, Mycroft. You'll be home again soon, and we'll be dancing in the dark once again." Tapping the tip of his fiancée's nose with his fingertip once before letting him go, Greg reluctantly stepped away and tugged on his own jacket. He figured he could go into the office a little early to catch up on paperwork anyway. The idea of staying in the flat without Mycroft was unappealing.

"Is that a promise?"

"That is a promise, baby. Now, get out of here before I'm tempted to ravish you until night falls again."

Mycroft chuckled as he headed out, Greg not far behind him, and as the door clicked closed, they shared a glance. They both knew Greg was unlikely to return to the flat, or at least their room, until Mycroft was back. It went unspoken, just like the fact that Mycroft's next few days were probably going to be at least a little dangerous, and that Greg would worry about him the entire time.

What did not go unspoken, however, was the fact that they loved each other. Mycroft, who was now finally comfortable with the words, initiated them before two long black cars arrived to whisk them off in opposite directions, courtesy of Anthea.

As Mycroft climbed in the back of his and listened to his PA detail his schedule for the day, he settled in and closed his eyes, listening with part of his mind while another part, prompted by the darkness behind his eyelids, replayed the events of the night before, from his entrance to the flat to their exit from it. And there was a small smile on his lips the whole way to the airport, though he never missed a beat when Anthea asked him a question.


	18. Cake

Mycroft scowled at the table, a look on his face that was so familiar that it made Greg smile. Petulance was a trait the Holmes brothers definitely shared, but it manifested itself differently in each of them. Sherlock became belligerent, like a toddler complaining about having lost its candy, but Mycroft simply went inside himself, those eyes going stormy as he pulled back emotionally.

If he was just sulking, Greg would be fine with it. But he understood the deep rooted fears his fiancée held, and knew how much they would always bother him. There was little he could do to fix a childhood full of verbal abuse that had left him emotionally scarred in some areas, but that did not mean that Greg wouldn't try. This was part of that attempt, though Mycroft didn't quite know that yet.

"My, we need to have a wedding cake. And I want it to be one that we'll both enjoy. There's no point in getting one if we don't at least do the cheesy things like shoving it in each other's faces and freezing some to eat on our anniversary. I'm pretty sure everyone will be disappointed if we don't have a cake, and I'm not picking one without you."

The DI could be just as stubborn as a Holmes, if he set his mind to it, and judging by the way he crossed his arms over his chest and watched Mycroft from across the table, he was choosing this moment to prove that again. While the last time had been fun, and involved a very interesting game involving hours of teasing in the bedroom on both sides, this time promised not to be so fun. Their goals were at odds, a rarity in their relationship, and Mycroft found himself wishing that the blasted tradition didn't exist in the first place.

"I do not understand why we need a cake." His voice was calm, but he still hadn't looked at Greg since the older man had mentioned their cake testing, scheduled for the afternoon, about ten minutes ago. The morning had gone from peaceful and cheerful to tense in just a couple of seconds, and had resulted in this quiet standoff at the kitchen table.

"It's traditional. It's romantic. And, most importantly, it's something that everyone gets to enjoy. It's our way of sharing the joy we feel at being together with the rest of the world. Didn't you once tell me that chocolate releases endorphins in the brain just like kissing? Consider this our way of sharing our kisses with everyone in the room, everyone we care about. Doesn't that sound worthwhile?" Greg knew Mycroft secretly liked it when he used his arguments against him, because it meant he paid attention and was learning new things, but he hated that they weren't talking about the real issue.

"Tradition seems to have little to do with the marriage of two men, as such is typically forbidden by the very religion that created the version of marriage we are undertaking anyway. Romance isn't about the party where we'll be making nice with all our friends, but what happens afterward. As to the endorphin release… first, you're making the assumption that we select a chocolate cake, which is not necessarily going to happen, and second, no, I don't wish to share kisses with all our friends and those we consider family. The only person I ever want to share a kiss with is you."

Greg ceased his line of attack. Not only did he not want to truly argue with Mycroft, the man had some valid points, and it had become clear that he was not going to get him to accept things with the indirect route. Directness, then, would be the next plan of attack.

"I appreciate that, love, but I don't think that any of this is the reason you don't want to go test cake. Do you want to share what's really going on with me?" Greg wouldn't force it. He didn't see a need to shove it in his fiancée's face that he already knew what the issue was. Sherlock had quietly taken him aside during their last case and divulged that this would undoubtedly come up, and explained the reasons why. But Greg wanted to hear it from Mycroft, and didn't plan to force him to discuss it if it was something he didn't yet feel comfortable sharing.

"It's only…" Mycroft sighed, massaging the bridge of his nose before placing his hands on the table, fingers folded together with the exception of his pointer fingers and thumbs, the tips of which were pressed together. It was his version of the thinking pose his brother often fell into, and it also seemed to be a calming mechanism, if his usage of it in conjunction with difficult topics was at all relevant. Greg, though by no means a Holmes, was more observant than most, and was careful to pick up on his fiancée's little quirks.

"Do you remember all the times Sherlock has made comments about my weight and dieting?" Greg barely kept himself from wincing. Those comments, seemingly echoes of the abuse Sieger and Violet had shot at their eldest over the years, had actually been Sherlock's misguided way of trying to tell his brother that he didn't need a diet, and that the idea of him needing one was ridiculous. They hadn't gone over that way—Mycroft had been too sensitive to understand where the sentiment was coming from—but Sherlock, who'd learned from his mistakes, had passed all of this along to Greg, in the hopes that he wouldn't make the same mistakes.

Underneath the shell he'd carefully concocted, part of Mycroft craved approval and care, and he'd learned, from his screwed up childhood, that the only way to gain a measure of either was to be flawless. He was starting to learn that he didn't need to be perfect to be loved, but some of the other hang ups that had resulted from it all weren't so easily done away with. This was just one of them.

"Yes, I remember." Greg murmured, lowering his own eyes. He had a feeling that the pain he would see in Mycroft's gaze would make him want to hurt the monsters who could make a child feel so insignificant and unwanted that he would spend the rest of his life doubting himself as a result, and he knew that anger was not the response he needed to offer up here. He needed to understand where his fiancée was coming from, and he needed to stay calm for the both of them.

"Well, when I was younger, I had a rather significant fondness for sweets of all kinds. Whenever I was upset, I would often seek out anything that contained sugar and devour it. My parents were… less than understanding, especially as they were often the cause of my emotional strife. I was rather large for my first few years of schooling, and in addition to my parents and their thoughts on the matter, I also had to deal with bullying.

"I ended up taking self-defense courses after school with a teacher who thought he could help me. He told my parents that they were study sessions, so I was allowed to stay after, but we did not tell them what I was studying. I eventually did manage to get my body where doctors say it should be, and put on some muscle, and those who bullied me either became bored or afraid. But every time I so much as glanced at a piece of cake or a candy, they would comment, and I… Simply stopped eating anything of that kind."

Greg absorbed this quietly, pleased that Mycroft had progressed enough to be able to actually talk about these sorts of things. He'd finally managed to convince him that some problems couldn't be fixed unless they were talked about, and this frank discussion of what amounted to verbal abuse was a result of it.

"So that means you haven't eaten a sweet in, what, at least thirty years?" Mycroft looked slightly uncomfortable at this, opening his mouth and closing it twice before finally managing to get the next words out, ones he was sure that Greg would disapprove of.

"That is not strictly true. I have, from time to time, indulged, but I cannot list off an instance since those days where it has not resulted in me being ill."

"You mean you make yourself sick?" Greg was staring at him, looking a little horrified, but Mycroft didn't notice, too busy shaking his head.

"No. It's psychological, not physical. I simply cannot ingest something of that nature without being taken back to my past mentally. It is much harder to overcome a troubled youth when you remember every second of it, you see. And I am very aware that part of me is still the scared, chubby little boy whose one desire was to be cared about, and though he could obtain it by being skinny. I'm not sure why I thought that, really. Perhaps because Sherlock wasn't around to show me that no matter how emaciated I looked, they would always be cold, unfeeling people, incapable of loving anyone."

"And when you go back to the past, you throw up." Mycroft nodded in acknowledgment of the comment, but still hadn't looked up. Would it disgust Greg, to know that the man who was always so in control was a complete mess inside? It hadn't repulsed him before, but Mycroft sometimes wondered if he would, eventually, be pushed over the edge, have had enough and just give up.

"Mycroft… Baby, if I'd known that, I swear, I'd never have forced the issue." Coming around the table, Greg fell to his knees at his lover's side and took both of those elegant hands in his, holding them firmly. Mycroft did look up then, drawn by a compulsion beyond his ability to resist, and found compassion, love, and a silent apology. He couldn't remember the last time someone he loved had actually apologized for hurting him like this, especially unintentionally. No one but Greg had even thought of doing so.

"It's ridiculous, and I would normally be far too logical to be susceptible to something so absurd. It isn't your fault that you didn't know."

"Sherlock explained it a bit, but I don't think even he realized how deeply rooted it was inside you. No one should have to live in fear like this, baby. I'm sorry; I'll cancel the appointment." Greg looked so beautiful in that moment, like some sort of avenging angel, that Mycroft was torn between the urge to cry and kiss him silly. Not quite able to decide, he chose a little of both, pressing a brief but loving kiss to the firm line his mouth had pressed into while letting a few stray tears escape his eyes before he swiped at them impatiently.

"No, don't. You're right; we should have cake." Mycroft looked right at him, so he would know he wasn't just saying it so as to not upset him, and Greg sighed, reaching up to hold his lover's face and caress his cheek gently with one calloused thumb, a gesture Mycroft always found almost unbearably tender.

"Cake is not worth you getting upset, sick, or otherwise hurt. I will never willingly do anything that hurts you, Mycroft Holmes. I love you far too much for that."

Warmth flooding through him at his cop's adamancy, Mycroft kissed him again, relaxing into it, searching for the heat Greg was only too willing to return.

"At some point, Gregory, I will need to get over this. Perhaps with you by my side… I might be able to do to this."

"Are you sure? Because I don't want to do this if it makes you uncomfortable." Greg's generosity of spirit was something Mycroft vowed never to take for granted in his life, even as he drew the silver haired man to his feet for one more scorching kiss.

"I think it's time to conquer the ghosts of the past that have haunted me, and maybe even replace dark memories with happier ones. Fear is not something I enjoy, and this offers me a chance to conquer one of mine. I need to at least try."

Agreeing with Mycroft's assessment, Greg took his hand and the two of them decided on a walk through the park before heading over, in the hopes that it would distract him. By the time they got there, both men looked windblown, cheeks red from the chilly air and from laughter, and Mycroft ended up laughing at his own reflection in the window as they approached the door.

"I do not believe I have ever looked this unprofessional in a suit before, Gregory. This is certainly different." Mycroft commented, reaching up to fix his hair a little. Greg helped him, ignoring his own wind-tousled hair because it made him look dashing instead of messy, and then they stepped inside together, practically assaulted by the scents of baked goods. Mycroft, who'd avoided places like this for years, blinked in shock as it all hit him at once.

"Doing okay, baby?" Greg tried to keep Mycroft from being overwhelmed, but though he looked uncertain, he also looked… hopeful.

"The last time I attempted this was several years ago. It is possible that distance will have fixed my issues, and it is also possible that having you at my side might make me feel more secure, and less likely to be ill."

He spoke in a calm, logical voice, but there was the wonder of a child in a candy store in his eyes as he looked around them.

"Are you two here to taste for the Holmes-Lestrade wedding?" A young woman in an apron who had her hair tucked back in a messy bun popped seemingly out of nowhere, a cheerful smile on her face. She had flour speckling her face and hair, but when she firmly shook their hands, she left no chalky residue behind.

"Yes, that's us. I'm Greg, and this is Mycroft." Greg did the introductions because Mycroft was a little distracted, eyes wide as he glimpsed a huge cake being carried through the back of the shop.

"I'm Livia. We do a good business here, but it tends to make things a little hectic. Please, come have a seat here at the table. I'll bring out a few selections, and we'll go from there." The efficient young woman made her way into the back, and popped out with six different slivers of cake on a tray before they were even truly settled.

"Here we have the standard chocolate, here's vanilla, this one's yellow, the one over here is white swirled with cinnamon, this is red velvet, and this one here is something special that we call lava cake. The icings are buttercream, fondant, meringue, ganache, cream cheese icing, and this one is swirled through with chocolate fudge which is also then drizzled on top like icing. You can mix and match any kind of cake and icing you like, and we'll decide on the design once you've picked what flavors you like."

Livia hustled off toward the back of the shop again, presumably to give them time to test, and Mycroft shot his fiancée a knowing look, which Greg responded to with a sheepish grin.

"To be fair, they usually dart off like that anyway so the people can talk honestly. That way we can admit when we hate something and no one's around to offend."

"I'm fine, Gregory. Truly." Mycroft watched, a little nervous but fine, as Greg forked off a piece of the red velvet, one of his favorite flavors. He offered it to Mycroft, who hesitantly leaned forward to accept the mouthful… and then gasped in surprise when Greg leaned forward and kissed him, sharing the bite between them.

"What was that for?" Mycroft asked, a little amused as he settled back into his own seat. Greg responded by scooting his own chair closer, so they could repeat the process a bit more comfortably.

"That was in the hopes that pairing a pleasant stimuli with one you identify as unpleasant will allow you to see eating cake as something fun, instead of something terrible. Sherlock had John work with me a bit on the psychology." And for Sherlock, who didn't really believe in psychology, to try something he didn't approve of to help his brother… That was extraordinary. So even as they continued to test cakes in the most romantic way possible, comparing what they liked and didn't like, Mycroft promised himself that he would thank his brother, out loud and in person, the next day when he went over there. With the wedding drawing closer, he and Sherlock were running out of time to finish their surprise, but it was nearly done, and only needed a bit more tweaking.

"I honestly think I liked the lava cake best. And the fudge is wonderful." Greg commented, watching his fiancée carefully. Mycroft, seeing his gaze, smiled and leaned forward to kiss him again, not even noticing when Livia came back from the kitchen. She politely cleared her throat and smiled at them as they parted. Mycroft had ceased to be embarrassed by public displays of affection, and simply smiled back at her.

"So have you decided, then?" The woman asked, tilting her head and barely noticing when a few more strands of hair escaped. Her appearance was less than professional, Mycroft mused, but there was no doubt that she was fantastic at what she did. He was very glad that Greg had chosen this place to find a cake.

"Yes. The lava cake with the chocolate fudge. It's perfect. We both really enjoyed it." His words were as much a message to Livia as to his fiancée, and as Greg made the arrangements and gave Livia the information she needed to get their cake to the venue, which happened to be Mycroft's country estate, Mycroft settled back in his seat, a small smile on his face. Perhaps as long as Gregory was around, he wouldn't feel guilty for indulging himself.

As the two of them left, hands joined and swinging comfortably between them, Greg glanced over at him, trying to gauge, without asking, whether or not he was truly okay. Mycroft smiled, tilting his head back to enjoy a rare bit of sunlight that broke through the clouds.

"I think I like cake," he said finally, putting his fiancée out of his misery. Greg laughed, then turned him around and kissed him enthusiastically. Mycroft closed his eyes and enjoyed, because his Gregory tasted like molten chocolate and happy endings, and his kiss was honestly better than any cake on earth.


	19. Song

**A/N: For the purposes of the bachelor parties, I decided that they should have separate events, ones that highlight their own personalities. I can totally see Mycroft spending his last night as an unmarried man working on perfecting a gift for his soon to be husband, and since the best man is usually the one who arranges the stag party, I feel like this is what both Sherlock and Mycroft would have chosen. Neither would be interested in a night with strippers or too much alcohol, and I wanted to show that the brothers are growing closer now that they have taken down their walls around one another. I really felt like I needed to highlight their bond, so this chapter might have a bit more brotherly love than focus on Mystrade, but I think that's okay. This is meant to be a realistic exploration of what their lives would be like if I wrote the series, after all, and I hope you enjoy it!**

**one last thing: iwillseduceyouwithmyweirdness, if you read this, I do have something similar to your request in the works already- it's just going to be a bit more detailed than I think you were suggesting. :) If you'd like to discuss, PM me.**

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Sherlock and Mycroft sat across the room from one another, but did not speak. Mycroft was settled behind the piano, Sherlock standing with his violin poised to play, but neither said a word or played a note. They simply watched each other, for one long moment, before words neither of them ever thought would truly pass between them left Mycroft's mouth.

"Thank you." Sherlock's reaction was to blink in shock, with something akin to panic, happiness, and amusement crossing his face all at once.

"For what, exactly?" His deep, drawn out drawl was the same, but Mycroft could see the wheels turning in his head as he wondered what, exactly, he was being thanked for. The brothers did more for one another than the rest of the world knew, and yet, neither of them had ever acknowledged it, not really. They had grown up having each other's backs, just the two of them against the rest of the world, and even during the years when every word had been laced with venom, they'd always done what they could to take care of each other. It was simply who they were. Discussing it broke the unspoken code of silence… but at that moment, neither of them truly thought that breaking it was a bad thing.

"For everything you've done for me. I could state specific instances, such as helping me compose this piece and agreeing to play it, or telling Greg about the cake, or being prepared to draw our parents' ire by throwing yourself on the fire as a sacrifice at our luncheon. But not only would we be here all day, we both recall in perfect detail everything that you have done for me. So thank you."

Mycroft would simply have begun to play then, but Sherlock's voice, a little hesitant but clear, stopped him.

"I thank you as well, brother. I am well aware that without you, I would not be half the man I am today. You've always taken care of me. I would be remiss if I did not return the favor, seeing as I am not the psychopath everyone else always assumed. You just knew better, and for that, and everything else, I am grateful."

It was probably the first time either of them had come close to expressing brotherly love in at least two decades, but they were on something of a tight schedule. Tonight was supposed to be Mycroft's stag party, but instead of trying to scrounge up friends and consume large quantities of alcohol, or perhaps call strippers or get into a fight at a pub, Mycroft had elected for a night in, during which he and Sherlock would practice the song they were writing until it was absolutely perfect. And considering it needed to be perfect for the very next day, they were staying at the flat Mycroft shared with Greg the entire night. There was really no time for a long talk. Perhaps later, when they were finished, they would finish the conversation.

Greg was set to go home with John and get ready there for the wedding the next day, but at the moment, they were out at the pub they frequented. They'd left approximately an hour before, and neither brother had spoken until Mycroft's words of thanks. Now, they would likely not speak again for some time. They didn't really need to.

The first few notes were played on the piano, as it was a duet designed for two very different voices. Mycroft was playing the notes that represented himself, and Sherlock was playing the parts that represented Greg. Slow, light, lonely notes left the piano, a mournful sound that slowly sped up, suggesting he was going downhill fast.

It was then that the violin came in, the melody soothing and calming, offering shelter from the storm, a bit of peace in the eye of the tornado. These notes were low and long, and they served as an answer to the questions the piano occasionally broke in to emit. Back and forth it went, until Mycroft's fingers were racing across the keys and Sherlock's bow was moving with a speed even some concert violinists couldn't achieve, working in tandem to show passion and happiness and awe, working up to a crescendo that settled slowly.

Next came sweeter notes from the piano, answering the violin, this time. This song was the story of their relationship, and Mycroft had been careful to include each pivotal moment. At the end, the only part they hadn't truly worked on yet, he'd written the happiness he knew he would feel when he and Greg joined hands, exchanged rings, and kissed on the altar in front of everyone. He didn't know what would come after, but he knew he was excited to begin their life together.

That excitement was a thin thread that wove its way through the entire song. Anxiety was there, too, but a pervading sense of hope overrode the darkness when it seemed prepared to pull the piece down, and again and again they rose and fell like the tide, sometimes countering one another, sometimes working together in perfect harmony. There was a balance to it, something that was rare but special, and each note was exactly right. Sherlock felt a bit of envy even as he channeled the man his brother had fallen in love with to play his part, because there was a part of him that wanted this for himself.

Mycroft's own feelings were reflected in the song. Everything he'd felt, he played, letting it all out there for everyone to hear. He knew that this piece, more than anything else he'd ever done in his life, would make him vulnerable, and that everyone would be able to hear it if they used their brains. He also knew that there was no better declaration of his love than to use one of his strongest skills to illustrate it.

More than a child prodigy, more than a politician or negotiator, Mycroft was, in his heart of hearts, a musician. This was the one part of his childhood that he'd truly enjoyed, and he wanted that to be visible to his husband—and he could barely believe he could soon call Greg that—when he and Sherlock finally played the piece for an audience.

This would be the first and only time the song would ever be heard by ears other than their own. Sherlock and Mycroft, when they were finally satisfied at one in the morning after an eight hour session of that one song on repeat, recorded it, and played back the recording to make sure there was nothing they had missed. Finally, they smiled at one another, and no other words on the song needed said. It was perfect.

"Your Gregory will never be able to fall out of love with you, once he hears this. It is amazingly sentimental for you, brother." The fact that Sherlock had actually just teased him wasn't lost on Mycroft, who gently slid the cover over the keys while Sherlock packed away his own violin. He'd been using a different violin in their other sessions, one that Mycroft had acquired for him so John wouldn't get suspicious that his own was missing, but they both knew that the doctor and DI would be far too pissed when they returned to Baker Street to notice a detail like a missing violin.

"I think Gregory has chosen his destiny by this point, and for some reason has cast his lot in with me. I might never understand why, but he does seem to love me." Mycroft looked lost for a second, and Sherlock read his insecurities on his face. For all the times they'd deliberately taunted one another, these moments were something they'd always left out. For a long time, they had been the only people the other could be vulnerable in front of, and neither had ever taken advantage of it. But neither had they addressed it, though now seemed like the moment.

"Why would he not love you, Mycroft?" It was a gently inquiry, the kind Sherlock would never have offered anyone else. Anyone else, he would have deduced, called an idiot, and listed off the pros and cons of being with. Well, anyone but John. Assuming he didn't make a complete mess of it, that was. Mycroft understood this, and it was what allowed him to give an honest answer.

"I am not the kind of person that Gregory should love. He is an honest, open person, full of happiness and a love of life, and I am a liar, by career and habit, and have a tendency of hurting the people I care about because I am unable to connect like a normal person."

"That, brother, is not true. It was true, when you made this assessment about yourself decades ago, but it is not true now. The fact that you asked me here the past couple of months to work on a song for the man you love is proof of that, but even if you would choose to ignore that, there is other evidence of a change in you.

"You have always had a problem getting close to people, that much is correct. But that doesn't mean you're incapable of it. You managed to do it with Greg, without anyone's assistance but his, and you always try to make it up to him when you do something stupid like doubt yourself and hurt him as a result." Sherlock couldn't be _too_ nice, after all. It would set the wrong precedent. "Your career requires you to lie, but in your personal life, you are one of the most honest, honorable men I have ever met. And I have met many men who have no problem lying to others in my own work, so you should understand that I am making an honest assessment."

Sherlock paused, steepling his fingers and looking his brother dead in the eye.

"What Gregory has always wanted, the only thing he has truly ever wanted, was for someone to love him completely, with all their heart, and hold nothing back. You, who have more reasons than most people to hold yourself a bit away from everyone, have chosen to give him all your love, to make him the first and only person you offer your full devotion to. You give your Gregory a way to feel complete, something no one else he's loved has ever offered him. He can rely on you, and he has someone who not only loves him, but also needs him to be whole. He is a protector, and you let him be who he is, and never ask him to change. If there is anyone on this earth who is truly capable of making him happy, it is you."

Mycroft could only gape at his brother for a long minute. He could barely believe that Sherlock could even make a statement like that, let alone be honest about it. It was nearly unbelievable, except… except that Mycroft could remember his brother, when he'd been a child, and had been that honest and empathetic about everything. It was before he'd decided that feeling nothing at all was better than always being hurt by their parents, before he'd felt completely abandoned and closed in on himself.

_This_ was what he'd been like, _this_ was how they'd always talked, _this_ was the way they would always have been had it not been for their parents. Now, however, it seemed that they were coming full circle, that they were somehow going to become what they always should have been. Mycroft smiled softly, realizing that his brother might finally manage to heal from the wounds he'd incurred in his youth.

"Thank you, Sherlock." He murmured, earning a small but genuine smile in response. _Sherlock was getting better_. The truth was not one either of them could take for granted, when it had taken so long for him to get to this point.

"Helping you write this song has reminded me of why I need to feel again, Mycroft. Don't thank me for that. I should be thanking you. I would have thought you would have known that. You _are_ the smart one, after all." Rising gracefully to his feet, Sherlock walked over to Mycroft and did something he hadn't done since he was a child.

Somehow, the hug wasn't fumbling or awkward, or any of the things it might have been after so long. It was oddly right, and both men closed their eyes, grateful, somehow, to all the years that had passed because they now understood how precious their bond was. They would never take this for granted, now that they were back together again, a song made to symbolize love and devotion somehow having finally brought them back together.

"I am glad you agreed to be my best man." Mycroft said before stepping back, the faintest hint of a smile reflected on both their faces. Then he walked over to the liquor cabinet, poured them both a drink, and they toasted each other as they sat on the couch, the silence every bit as blissful and oddly right between them as any song could have been.


	20. Beer

**A/N: Remember Mycroft's stag party, which was basically just a music festival dedicated to brotherly love? This is not like that. Greg is the kind of guy who knows how to go out and have a good time, and so is John, which means that obviously, they will be out drinking. It took kind of an interesting turn at the end, one that I admittedly wasn't expecting, because this chapter was supposed to be mostly fluffy. I guess John is just a bit more serious than I gave him credit for. Anyway, don't get too bogged down if you get a little sad, because I will be cranking up the fluff in the next chapter, and if you're not careful, you might just choke on it. For now, please enjoy!**

* * *

Greg smiled at John as they grabbed seats in the cab waiting for them at the curb, having been held there by the doctor while he collected the cop. While the Holmes brothers were doing goodness knew what for Mycroft's portion of the stag party, John had arranged a fairly traditional celebration for his best mate besides Sherlock. The party, which was taking place at their favorite pub, was being attended by what seemed like half of New Scotland Yard. They were already there, as the establishment's owner had closed the place down for them because his sister was a cop and he respected their work, and John and Greg were the last ones set to arrive.

John rubbed his hands together, excited at the idea of having one last wild night out before Greg was permanently tied to Mycroft. It wasn't that things were likely to change all that much, but his security would need to be even tighter once it became common knowledge that the two men were romantically entangled. That meant that these nights would be mostly a thing of the past, and while John didn't need to go out and get drunk to enjoy himself, he would miss this.

Judging by the half smile on Greg's face, he was thinking along the same lines, so John nudged him with his shoulder.

"Ready to have a hell of a good time tonight, Greg?"

"Yes, but don't let me get too drunk. I know it's an afternoon ceremony, so I'll have a bit of time to get over a hangover, but I actually don't want to forget anything about my wedding day this time around."  
John raised an eyebrow.

"As opposed to the first time?" This earned a dark chuckle, which was answer enough, so the doctor let it go, settling back in against the seat and waiting for the cab to reach their destination. It didn't take long, fortunately, and soon they were hopping out, stretching their legs, and walking in to a chorus of cheers as the Yarders they typically worked with raised glasses to the DI.

"This is quite the turnout. How'd you get everyone here? Did you promise them free liquor for a week or something?" Amused despite himself, Greg felt his lips twitching upward as they maneuvered through the crowd to the bar.

"Two bottles of beer and two shots of whiskey, please!" John said cheerily to the bartender, a pretty young woman the two of them often chatted with, and she winked at him before bustling off to grab their drinks.

"Not quite. But Mycroft told me to arrange whatever I thought you would enjoy the most, and handed me a credit card that apparently has no limit, saying that it's one of his wedding presents to you. It was pretty mysterious, and it sounded like he has more in store for you, but I have no idea what. I can only imagine you'll like it. Your man is surprisingly romantic." John accepted his shot first, knocking it back before grabbing his beer, though he didn't take a drink yet.

Greg ignored his shot in favor of a few sips of beer. It was something he and Mycroft could never agree on. His fiancée—soon-to-be-husband, he could barely believe it—liked fancier drinks, and didn't understand the appeal of beer. There was just something he found very down to earth and honest about it, though it wasn't as elegant as the things in Mycroft's liquor cabinet, certainly. He often felt like the beer to Mycroft's fine wine, and he was okay with that. As long as he was the politician's preferred brand, it didn't so much matter.

Realizing that he was creating really bad metaphors in his head, Greg knocked the shot back, preparing for a night of razzing from his mates. He really didn't plan to drink too much, but he wanted to be relaxed, so no one would think he was getting cold feet or anything.

He was on his second beer when some of the Yarders started coming up to socialize, some of them just staying long enough to grab another drink and some of them settling in. Sally Donovan grabbed the barstool on his unoccupied side, and Anderson hovered behind her.

"So you're really marrying Freak's brother? No second thoughts at all?" Sally looked incredulous, and Greg sighed, running a hand through his hair. This, too, he'd been afraid of. His people had known him as the straight-laced, straight DI for years, and had been a little stunned when they'd found out who he was dating. Sally, who'd been friends with his ex-wife, had always thought the divorce had been a mistake. Obviously, she was here to reassert her opinion again. Greg didn't want to hear it.

"I love him, and he loves me more than anyone else ever has. That's all I need to know." Greg said firmly, hoping to eschew any further arguments. Unfortunately, Anderson's big mouth chose that moment to enter the arena, backing the woman he was having an affair with automatically.

"But he's an even bigger freak than the younger one." There were very few things that could piss Greg off, but one of them was someone insulting the man he loved. He hauled Anderson close by his tie, which told him he'd probably had more beer than was wise, and upended a bottle that hadn't yet been touched over Anderson's head. He let out a rather unmanly shriek as beer cascaded down over him, but he was too inebriated to fight off the DI's surprisingly strong grip and was only allowed to move back, sputtering, when the bottle was empty.

"I think Anderson's had enough beer for one night, Donovan. Do take him home, won't you? If possible, back to his wife." With that last cutting remark that was sure to cause him problems when he went back to work in the near future, if she wasn't too drunk to remember what he'd said that had pissed her off enough to make her leave the pub, Greg turned back to the bar, eyeing the last of his own bottle before taking the contents down.

"I can't believe you just gave Anderson a beer bath. Sherlock will hate me for not having filmed that." John was actually giggling as he watched Greg casually finish his beer as if nothing had happened, and the cop shot him a knowing glance.

"I'm fairly sure that Mycroft has this place under surveillance, because we come here often, so getting him a copy of the footage shouldn't be that big of an issue. Hell, I think I want a copy for at home, for when the man's being a complete idiot at work and bungling up something simple. Honestly, if anyone else could work with Sally, I'd probably fire his ass. Maybe I should can both of them, or at least make them someone else's problem. Sally's a good cop, but she's a bitch."

It was probably the beer that made Greg speak so freely, but no one was listening to the two of them, so it didn't much matter. After the incident with Anderson, people had decided that approaching Greg was not the best idea for the next half hour or so, so they had some time pretty much to themselves.

"Trust me, I get that completely. You have no idea how many times I've nearly broken both their noses when they insult Sherlock. I know he can be a total berk, but he's not a freak." John's words were steady, though Greg noticed he was still on his second beer, as well. He had a remarkably good tolerance for someone whose sister was a drunk, though he did not suffer the same affliction.

Still, Greg decided to give himself the next hour to get a little less inebriated before he ordered another beer. He really didn't want a hangover in the morning, even if being sober meant he'd be extremely nervous.

"What's it like, getting to marry the man of your dreams?" John inquired quietly, and Greg noticed the wistfulness in his eyes, which were staring determinedly into the bottom of his bottle as if it held the secrets to the universe, and he might be able to figure out his mad flat mate if he could just look at it the right way.

"Christ, mate, I need more beer for this." Ordering another, because sobriety be damned if John needed his help, Greg drank a little while he contemplated. His hands were still steady, and the floor wasn't moving, so he was fit to give advice, despite the comfortable layer of haze that had settled over his mind.

"I finally feel like I'm where I'm meant to be. Things with my ex were never right, I think we both knew that, and I think that's why she cheated on me so many times. I finally just decided that I was going to be happy, and to hell with it all, and if Mycroft makes me happy then I need to make sure he knows that, because life is only so long, and if I want to be happy, I have to chase happiness down."

"I'm not sure when the last time I was really happy was," John confessed, accepting the beer the very intuitive bartender put down in front of him without needing asked. "Being close to Sherlock is… bittersweet. Like torture that I don't want to end, no matter how badly it hurts me, because being with him is better than being without him, even though I'd never have figured out that I was unhappy if I hadn't met him in the first place. You know?"

Greg, who thought by the rambling sentence that his friend had perhaps had _too much _to drink for this conversation, set his own beer aside to concentrate on John.

"Does that mean that you're going to pursue Sherlock, then?" It was something Greg and Mycroft had been hoping for, and Greg felt his heart break a little for his friend when John shook his head, looking boyish and just slightly pathetic as he cradled his beer in both hands.

"No, I can't. The berk's my best friend, and I'd be lost without him. I just don't know how long I can go on pretending that I don't feel this way. I'm gonna lose my mind, Greg. Maybe I should go stay with my sister for a couple of weeks…" Trailing off, John looked at Greg with glassy eyes as if not really seeing him. And that was when Greg realized that they were definitely too old to be going out to pubs and getting completely pissed. He was getting _married _in the morning, and John was his best man. Allowing one's best man to slip into melancholia the night before one's wedding seemed like a poor idea, so Greg toasted the Yarders, thanked them for coming, and told them to stay, but that he and John were heading out.

Back to Baker Street they went, and Greg fixed them tea, instructing John to go take a shower. When he came back out he looked a little better, and had quit slurring noticeably, though his eyes were still a little red. Vowing to firmly cap John's limit of beer to two bottles next time they went out, if they didn't just decide after this to stay in at one of their flats, Greg settled in on the couch, respecting the fact that John didn't like it when people sat in Sherlock's chair.

"John, I think you should seriously consider coming clean with Sherlock." The night before his wedding was the last time wanted to have this conversation, but he felt like there were things that needed to be said. The beer left over in his system aiding him, he attempted to help his friend before things blew up in their faces.

"No. If he doesn't see how I feel, it's because he doesn't want to, which is the same thing as a rejection. I'll hide it until I can't anymore, and when I feel that time coming, I'll... I dunno. Make other arrangements. We can work together on a professional basis, but I'll have to move out of the flat."

Greg sighed. Unfortunately, it was very difficult to reason with a man in love who thought his feelings were unrequited, especially one as stubborn as John Watson, so he decided to let the matter rest. Sherlock had graciously given Greg permission to use his bed, so he finished his cuppa, told John goodnight, and headed back the hallway. John's voice stopped him just before he closed the door.

"It's just the beers talking, mate. Don't worry. I won't be like this for your wedding day. I really am happy for you, you know?" The typical chipper side of John was making an appearance, and Greg wasn't going to complain. He smiled and nodded to the doctor, assuring him that he hadn't though he would do anything to make the wedding uncomfortable, and quietly closed the door with a click.

Both men slept dreamlessly, thanks to the aid of the beer, but they weren't so inebriated that they woke up feeling hung over, for which Greg could only be grateful. He blinked and squinted when sunlight hit his eyes then next morning, and then gasped, eyes opening comically wide. Today was his wedding day.


	21. Fate

**A/N: I think I just choked on my own fluffiness. Seriously, this chapter is just. So. Cute. I hope I did it justice, but never having been married myself, I can only go by how I picture this turning out. Obviously you can't take this chapter super seriously, and I hope that no one uses this as a model for the perfect wedding or anything. I purposefully went sparse on the details so you can kind of use your own imagination, but if you care to know what I picture, I see lots of silver and black for the decor, except the flowers. I picture red roses everywhere, because not only are they romantic, but they are also kind of their flower, after that bit of adorableness Mycroft pulled near the beginning of their love story. I won't bore you with any more details, so have fun reading this!**

* * *

Mycroft couldn't remember the last time he'd felt quite so nervous. He was sweating, a little bit, despite the fact that he was wearing a suit like usual and it was the middle of winter. His estate wasn't even that warm; despite the outside heaters and the inside ones, because the doors were constantly opening as people passed in and out. But here, in his private room, he would have sworn they were doing this in the middle of summer.

Oh, lord. _Marriage_. It felt right, it really did, but at the moment, it didn't matter if he was fated to be with Gregory, if this was what was supposed to happen. Mycroft felt nearly faint, and picked up a folder from his desk, fanning himself with it. Sherlock took a glance at the folder, and realized that it was a file on one of the most dangerous men in the world. He hastily took it from his brother and replaced it with a harmless advertisement from the mail. It wouldn't do to walk out of those rooms with that folder, after all.

Sherlock's main job, as Mycroft's best man, was damage control. He'd known that going in. It was why he'd made sure, when they'd driven out to the country manor that morning, that no one would come to this room all day but the Holmes brothers, Greg, and John. The grooms would be spending the night here before flying out in the morning for their honeymoon, and Mycroft had offered the house—more like a mansion—up to Sherlock and John in their absence, if they wanted a vacation as well.

The younger Holmes was not stupid, and understood the offer was a veiled way of offering them some time alone together, away from everyone. Sherlock might have taken it, but things had been odd between John and himself for a couple of weeks now. Shaking his head, he forced himself to return his focus where it belonged—this was Mycroft's wedding day, and his older brother was currently having a small panic attack.

"Mycroft. Sit down." Using the commanding tone his brother normally used on him, Sherlock was actually surprised when the elder Holmes complied, dropping down to sit on the bed instantly, head falling forward into his hands.

"Brother. You need to relax. You and Greg are meant to be together. Quit panicking; you are fine, and this is your fate, and you needn't worry. Everything will go as it is supposed to."

Mycroft looked up at Sherlock then, eyes showing more emotion than Sherlock thought he'd seen emanating from his brother, when not in Greg's presence, since he'd been a teenager. He was flicking through feelings so fast it would be impossible for a normal person to catch up, and even Sherlock would be hard-pressed to follow his train of thought just now.

To say that the elder Holmes had an extraordinary brain would be a colossal understatement. He did, in fact, have the most extraordinary brain in the entire world, and right now, it was firing at full capacity, a sight that was both wonderful and terrifying to behold. When was the last time Mycroft had been so completely focused on any one thing? Sherlock couldn't remember, and the realization made him grin.

"Since when do you believe in fate, Sherlock?" Mycroft asked, eyes searching his anxiously.

"I have believed in fate since I saw the ice man fall in love with an ordinary man, fall so hard and fast and deep that there would be no way for either of them to ever escape the bond. I have believed in fate ever since I saw two men who had seemingly nothing in common but an annoying consulting detective who frequently got them both in trouble fit together like two halves of a whole, naturally as breathing. And I have believed in fate since an army doctor walked into a morgue and my heart changed rhythm so that it might better match his. I do believe in fate, brother, and I believe that this _is_ fate. So chill."

The use of the rather teenage phrase made Mycroft laugh out loud, and when Sherlock sat beside him, he leaned his head on his brother's shoulder, not hesitating for a second. With hands clasped, they waited for the buzz of Sherlock's phone, signaling that they should come down and take their positions.

Across the house, Greg was having a slightly more mild reaction. John had only had to threaten to sedate him twice, so he figured that things were going pretty well. The silver haired cop was wearing out the carpet, pacing back and forth with his hands clasped behind his back, knuckles white and straining.

"Greg, you need to calm down." John pointed out, well aware his words were probably going to have little effect. Ever since the man had woke up that morning he'd been a bundle of nerves, practically vibrating with the tension, but John had honestly thought he'd have worn himself out by now. He'd never seen the DI this keyed up about anything, and the realization made him smile. Oh, he was totally, completely, irrevocably sunk.

Rising to his own feet, John snagged his shoulders and held tight, preventing him from moving. Looking him directly in the eyes, John tried to impart a sense of calm, using his Captain voice because it usually got the best results in situations like this, and gentle soothing was obviously not going to cut it.

"Gregory, stop. You are mean to be with Mycroft, and all of us know it. But if you don't stop freaking out right now, I am going to tie you to a chair and keep you there until it's time for your vows."

"Do you believe in fate?" Greg asked suddenly, gripping John's forearms hard and hoping desperately for an answer that made sense. This felt right, so right, but there was so much fear that things were going to fall apart at last minute. That Mycroft would finally come to his senses, or that his ex-wife would show up and cause a scene… or hell, anyone could cause a scene, and his dreams could come crashing down around his ears.

"I have always believed in fate, Greg. Some things are just meant to be. It's why I never once questioned my decision to move in with Sherlock, to shoot a cabbie for him with that gun you don't know about, only hours after meeting him. And I know when I look at you and Mycroft, I see perfect evidence that some people truly are just meant to be together." John looked down at his phone then, which was buzzing, and grinned.

"Show time, Greg. Slap on a smile that doesn't make it look like I've been giving you an enema back here, and let's go." He handed Greg his top hat, black with a silver band that matched his suit, and spun him around, pushing him gently out the door. The grooms were coming from opposite sides of the sprawling mansion so that the first time they saw one another dressed up like this would be in the room in which they would wed.

There was a sharp intake of breath as, seemingly perfectly in sync, the two walked into the room at the exact same moment. For several long seconds, they simply stared at one another, eyes wide, seeing eternity reflected in one another's faces. And then, all at once, the anxiety was completely gone, leaving behind only an overwhelming happiness that was visible to everyone in the crowd. There was no more fear, as they approached one another, stopping inches apart and smiling at one another.

Sherlock and John shared an amused and relieved glance before taking their own places, and then the wedding, officiated by Anthea, began.

The ceremony was something of a blur to everyone. The grooms quite clearly remembered exchanging the vows they'd written themselves, and they remembered Sherlock and John handing over the rings which they then exchanged with hands that trembled ever so slightly, and they definitely remembered the moment when Anthea, with a quick little smile, told them that they could now kiss their groom.

But the kiss was explosive, and for a moment, there was nothing in the world but the two of them. They were here, _finally here_, and everything else faded away in a supernova explosion that stole their breath, leaving them gasping and hold onto each other, laughing breathlessly as they pulled each other in for another kiss, ignoring Sherlock's comment that they might want to save some of that enthusiasm for the honeymoon.

Looking into each other's eyes, they both felt it, the thing they'd secretly feared they would never find. Sometimes, fate does smile on her children, and this was just one of those lucky, lucky cases.

"I love you, Gregory. I will love you always." Mycroft whispered into his ear as the two of them walked down the aisle, hands clasped together tightly as if they could never be parted. And in that moment, it felt like that was true. But the connection wasn't just physical; even when the real world intruded on their happily ever after, and reminded them that life went on after the romanticized "end," they would always be tied together like this, always feel like if they just moved a little closer, they might find themselves wrapped inextricably in the other.

"I hope you know by now that the same is true of me," Greg murmured, pulling Mycroft into his arms the second they were alone in the room where they would be able to freshen up and, if they so desired, change for the reception. Looking at one another with sudden mischief gleaming in their eyes, they realized that there was a much better way to spend this first hour of married life, during which time they had complete, unrestricted privacy.

"I want to kiss every inch of your body, then do it all over again until you can't even see straight." Mycroft growled against his lips, before tangling his fingers in silver hair and giving in to the need that had been rising up in him since he'd first seen his groom looking so amazing in his black tux, silver top hat with the black band a perfect combination. Now, however, that hat went rolling across the ground as the two of them grabbed at one another, fully prepared to devour each other.

This wasn't a slow, leisurely lovemaking. They collided like titans, fighting for dominance until they both surrendered to the sensations and to each other, being as careful as they could while moving at top speed so they didn't rip their suits. They did plan to get back into them, after all, and couldn't very well do that if they started while still dressed.

Soon they were naked, rolling around beneath the sheets like it was the first time, like they'd waited forever for this moment, like they wanted to crawl inside one another and never part again. It was easily more intense than anything they'd ever experienced before, and when their eyes met as Greg slipped inside Mycroft, holding him lovingly even as his hips pistoned madly, they both felt the fire consuming them, chasing them toward the climaxes they screamed their release into each other's mouths.

After a few moments, Greg collapsed, careful to roll to the side so as to not crush his husband. The cop blinked.

"We're married," he said suddenly, as if it hadn't been well-known to both of them. They stared at each other for a second before bursting out laughing, cuddling closer for several more passionate, half-desperate kisses. They'd sated their lust for each other, at least for the moment, but the love they felt burned so strongly it felt like they could never have enough of this.

When they had only ten minutes to go, Mycroft reluctantly stirred from the bed, fetching a damp cloth to wipe them both off before they dressed each other, getting distracted several times by some stretch of flesh they hadn't yet explored that day. They arrived to their own reception in the ball room twenty minutes late, hair mussed and both blushing ever so slightly, but no one minded. Fate, after all, took all the time it wanted.


	22. Life

**There are a couple of things I would like to say. The first is that for the constellations, I did research on what is visible in the southern hemisphere during their summer (which would be the northern hemisphere's winter, which is the time during which this segment of the story takes place) and tried to keep things realistic. I do not live in the southern hemisphere, so do I apologize if I got it wrong. **

**The second thing I would like to say is thank you. Thank you for sticking with this to the end, if you're one of the people who have followed this for three weeks now and waited for the next installments. You guys absolutely rock, and I want you to know that all the love you've sent is more than returned.**

**The third and final thing is that I have some good news for you: THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL. For those of you who haven't guessed, there is going to be Johnlock goodness, and the story will mostly revolve around that, but will include glimpses into Mystrade's married life. I hope you're as excited about it as I am! Now, I am done running my mouth and keeping you from the story. For the last time, at least for this piece of literature: enjoy!**

* * *

Greg smiled as he reclined in a beach chair, a cold beer in one hand, dangling above the hot sand by his fingertips as he tilted his head back toward the sun. This place that Mycroft had chosen for their honeymoon was definitely paradise, some small island he'd never even heard of before that he was now tempted to never leave.

Of course, that was only if he could talk his husband into staying with him. This life would get very boring very fast if he didn't have someone he loved with every beat of his heart to share it with.

The only person he had any interest in sharing it with was approaching at that very moment, judging by the quiet, sliding crunch of footsteps over sand. Greg was able to get away with wearing only boxers, as his complexion was naturally inclined to tan, but Mycroft wore trousers and a shirt even here, unless it was nighttime, or Greg could convince him that there were certain activities that simply shouldn't be undertaken with clothes on.

"You look as if you belong here, Gregory." Mycroft said lovingly as he took the single open chair beside him, sitting sideways so he could simply admire his husband. His skin had darkened a few shades during their time here on the island, even though they'd been here only a couple of days, and he looked far more delicious than Mycroft felt anyone had a right to.

"Hmm. Maybe. I was just wondering if I could convince you to stay here indefinitely, or at least come back when we retire and get out of the craziness of London. This is definitely paradise. I could see us spending the rest of our lives here."

Mycroft's heart gave an almost painful throb at the way Greg simply took for granted that they would be together always. Of course, there was no way he would ever give this up willingly, but to know his husband felt the same… even though he'd shied away from love for so long, he now understood that this was everything he'd ever wanted. Nothing else compared.

"I'm sure that could be arranged. However, there are many other beautiful places I would love to take you before we decide on one. You've never traveled until you've traveled with me." Greg chuckled and drained the last of his beer, unsurprised when Mycroft handed him another.

It was now evening, and though the sun was still bright it was low in the sky, indicating that soon, the moon and stars would be out to play. The two of them had been up all of the night before, not quite able to get enough of each other, and Mycroft, who hadn't napped with Greg the evening before in favor of reading a novel he'd been unable to find time for in the past few months, had ended up sleeping the morning and afternoon away, exhausted but happy.

Now he looked wide awake, and Greg admired him through his dark lenses. His skin was pale, glowing gently in the slowly dwindling light, and Greg had the urge to kiss him all over… just like he'd done for ten glorious minutes the night before, until Mycroft had rolled them, pinned his lover down, and put an end to the teasing for a while.

"I imagine. The places you must have seen over the years… I'm kind of astounded you never found anyone out there, in Paris or Rio or some other exotic locale." Greg's voice was gentle, teasing, but there was a tiny vein of seriousness that Mycroft couldn't fail to notice.

"I never thought that I would ever meet someone who could make me happy, let alone someone _I_ could make happy. It honestly never crossed my mind to look, until I suddenly found you. Maybe that's why I believe so strongly in this bond between us. I've never experienced anything like it before, but I just know this is how things are meant to be. I am meant to love you my entire life."

Greg's heart melted a little more at the confession, something no one else would likely ever believe him capable of. This was the side of Mycroft he loved with an almost painful intensity, one he doubted would ever fade.

"I feel the same way. I'll never be half as good with words as you are, though." Mycroft chuckled at Greg's words, unsurprised when his husband sat up and leaned over to kiss him. Their hands instinctively tangled together, rings clinking gently and shining in the sunlight as the two of them continued to kiss.

"I brought a blanket out," Mycroft murmured into his ear as they broke apart finally, both laughing a little, "though I didn't imagine we'd be using it to make out like horny teenagers on the sand."

Greg made a sound somewhere between a snort and a laugh, tangling his fingers in the hair at Mycroft's nape before kissing him one more time, this time gently.

"Was that more like what you had in mind, baby?"

"Actually, I was thinking that we might do some stargazing. It's rare that we get such a clear night in London, after all, and the lack of light pollution here makes this an even more ideal place for it. It's something I want to share with you." Mycroft's eyes sparkled, and Greg knew he would always be helpless to resist one of those innocent requests of his. There was just something about that hopeful little smile that made Greg want to do anything to please him. It was a good thing Mycroft was on the side of the angels, just like his brother.

"That sounds fine. But fair warning, I don't know anything about stargazing. It was never really something I thought about. Growing up I worked the farm, and that was a dawn to dusk lifestyle, and then I moved to London and discovered I am a total city boy."

"That's fine. I know enough to teach you, but even if I didn't, there's just something about the stars… Those small but bright glimpses of light in the darkness have gotten me through more than one difficult night. The moon and stars are always there, no matter where on earth you are, and as long as you can look up and see them, you never feel completely alone."

Knowing this was one of those things Mycroft had never shared with anyone else, Greg took his hand and brought it to his lips, kissing the back of it. It was an old-fashioned gesture of romance, and with anyone else would likely have been out of place, but it was kind of perfect for them.

"I haven't truly felt alone since I fell in love with you, Mycroft. I know you're with me wherever I go. Even when you're not stalking me with the CCTV." The joke earned him a full-bodied laugh, a rarity from Mycroft though it was getting more frequent, and then Mycroft cast the blanket out over the sand. There was also a picnic basket, and Greg smiled.

"We're eating first, I assume?" He earned an elbow to the side for the comment, and chuckled.

"Not every interaction is about sexual intercourse, Gregory." His voice was oddly proper, and Greg realized he was doing it on purpose. That snooty tone, which had once pissed him off, now made him laugh again.

"God, I love it when you get all prim and proper. Reminds me of the first time I took you to bed. You've come so far since then…" Mycroft blushed and busied himself with straightening out the blanket, well aware of how awkward he'd once been. Intimacy of any kind had been so difficult, but Greg had made things easy.

"I loved how shy you were. Hell, I love how shy you still are about some things. It's adorable." Mycroft whirled around so fast at that that he tumbled onto the blanket on his back, breath leaving him in a huff of surprise.

"What do you mean? I'm not adorable." Mycroft tried to salvage a bit of his dignity by pushing himself up by his elbows, but then he slumped backward when he realized he needn't have bothered. Pride was not something that really mattered when it came to Greg. It simply wasn't a part of their relationship, and hadn't been for a while.

"You totally are. There are a million reasons to love you, Mycroft, and that isn't the least of them. I will probably spend the rest of my life finding new reasons, and I won't mind that a bit." He lay down on the blanket beside his husband, close enough that he could lean over and kiss him, letting himself linger over the sensation.

"Mmm. There's nothing quite like kissing you, baby. Nothing in the world even comes close." Mycroft smiled against his lips as the kiss broke, staring up at his husband with love gleaming in his eyes.

"Sun's almost down. We had better eat before it gets cold."

Greg reluctantly moved away so they could do just that, and found that the picnic was full of a variety of his favorite foods.

"Should we start with desert?" Mycroft murmured in a low voice, earning another steaming kiss before Greg raised an eyebrow and pulled out the strawberries, champagne, and whipped cream.

"There's also chocolate dip. If you prefer that. But I read this really fascinating article on the perks of food in regards to seduction, and these were some of the suggestions I found there. I wanted our honeymoon to be perfect for you."

"Honestly, baby? Our honeymoon would be perfect for me if there were a hurricane going on around us, as long as I got to hold you and be close to you. This is a pretty good start to our life together."

"I'm glad you like it."

"I do really, really like it. But you don't need food to seduce me, okay?" Greg grinned, pressing a kiss to Mycroft's forehead.

"No? I really don't mind doing it, though. It's kind of fun."

"Oh, I don't mind it if you want to keep doing it, certainly. But I am already yours. Which means you don't actually have to," Greg pointed out, trying to hide his smile because he knew, by now, what his husband was going to say in answer.

"That's all the more reason I should keep seducing you, my love. Having had you, I am spoiled for anyone else. There is no one on this earth who will ever have my love the way you do, and I know how precious our bond is, which means there is no way I will ever take this for granted."

"I will never argue with that. You make me so happy, My. So incredibly happy." Greg scooped a dollop of whipped cream up on his finger and smeared it across Mycroft's lips, just so they could both have the pleasure of tasting it. They did, making the kiss last until long after the cream was gone.

Eventually they did dispose of most of the rest of their meal, and then they packed the remnants away in the basket. By that point the sun had finally sank beneath the horizon, and they watched the sky turn pink, then red, until it finally disappeared altogether and let the sky travel through a million shades of blue before sliding seamlessly into black.

The stars were pinpricks of light cutting through the darkness, and the moon, full or close to it, shone brightly above them.

"That one's _Taurus_, and that one over there is _Orion_…" Mycroft pointed out constellation after constellation until Greg laughed, batting his hand down so he could hold it.

"Can I be honest, baby? I don't really see the constellations. I just see a bunch of stars. And the ones in your eyes shine the brightest."

Mycroft simply stared at Greg for a second, blushing profusely.

"Have you been reading romantic poetry lately, darling?" He was both amused and charmed by Greg's out of character words, and wondered if Sherlock had been coaching him on Mycroft's favorite sorts of poems or something.

"Nah. Not really. I did read something similar for a case though, and all I could think about while I was reading it was you. I guess it kind of stuck."

Mycroft rolled over and lay a hand gently over Greg's heart, staring into his eyes. The moonlight was bright enough for the two of them to see one another clearly, and the smiles on both their faces were perfectly visible.

"I love you, Gregory Holmes-Lestrade, and I will love you for the rest of my life."

"I love you too, Mycroft Holmes-Lestrade. You are my life now."

Mycroft flopped back against the blanket then, laughing softly. Greg, who already knew pretty much what he was thinking, laughed with him.

"Do you think Sherlock and John have slept together yet?" Greg asked, and Mycroft shook his head.

"No, they'll take their precious time about it. But we've got years to get them there. And they have all those lovely issues they need to work out. They'll need us there. But let's just enjoy our honeymoon now, okay? We can deal with the rest of the craziness in our life then. Together."


End file.
